Pemberley Lost
by brynnjour
Summary: No longer the Master of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy takes Elizabeth Bennet's criticisms to heart and vows to become a truly honourable man - the kind of man capable of pleasing a woman worthy of being pleased. Will he remain the last man in the world she could ever marry? Or can a properly humbled Darcy secure both Elizabeth affections and Pemberley before it's too late?
1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**A/N:** Thanks for checking out my first post! I'm currently working on three projects (all of them JAFF), but I'll only be posting one at a time for now. I welcome your thoughts feedback via comments or private messages. This is a first draft and I intend to treat it as such. :)

 **PLEASE NOTE:** Because this story is a WIP, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from posting any reviews/ratings of this draft outside of FFnet to sites like Goodreads and other JAFF review forums. When the final edit is complete, this notice will be updated to reflect any changes in this policy. Also, please do not remove, share, or post this story or any part of it _anywhere_ without my written permission. While this work is inspired by Jane Austen, the original story, writing, and any additional characters are entirely my own.

For a full blurb of PL, check out my profile. Or (if you're into surprises) continue reading below!

xo brynn

* * *

 **PEMBERLEY LOST**

A Pride and Prejudice Variation

Written by Brynn Ashley

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 _"Farewell happy fields,  
Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail."  
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I –_

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!"

The sharp tone of his voice could have been described as disdainful, indignant, or even menacing as it cut through the air towards her. Indeed it would have been, had it been overheard by anyone other than the blanched young woman at whom such vitriol was directed. As it was, only the two of them would ever have reason to consider his manner of speech at present, and although both would think back on this day many times in the years that followed, neither would ever disgrace the recollection of their parting moments by describing his current disposition in such vulgar terms.

It was the flash of his eyes that would stay with her. At the moment she had refused him, an expression of such excruciating anguish had crossed his countenance that she had felt the shock herself. His eyes, so soft and temperate, had turned to coal. She did not trust her legs to carry her away from him, and so she could only watch as the two fierce embers heated, burned, and cooled before her. Yes, she had looked him in the eyes when she broke his heart. He deserved no less, after all. Still, the scorching display before her was quick to etch itself on the walls of her heart—and it would continue there long after the particular phrasings of his sentiments or the inflection with which they were delivered had faded.

She would often wish she had looked away. Perhaps it would have been better for them both if she had.

In the beginning, he would recall every detail, of course. There was little else for him to do. He would reflect at length on his preparations and expectations for the day, the incongruously fine weather as he had walked to the grove where they often met, and the first glimpse of her light form as she came around the bend. She had worn a pale pink gown that day and he had smiled at the sight of her, the color of her dress instantly bringing to mind the first apple blossoms of the season. It more than suited. But—he had conceded to himself—it hardly mattered what she wore, the lady herself was as vibrant as any spring.

Their paces had slowed until they stood facing one another at the edge of the path. He had searched her face then, hoping for some small glimpse, even the barest sign, of her true feelings. Though her surprise at his uncommonly solemn appraisal was evidenced by a delicate crease of her brow, she did not speak. But, of course, she had no need to. He had watched with satisfaction as a light blush crept across her exposed skin.

This was love.

In that moment, he had allowed himself to see and feel it all; her soft voice steady as she repeated the words which would leave them man and wife, the exhilarating sensation of her bare skin against his as he took her in his arms, the impish smiles of their many beloved and undoubtedly troublesome children.

And now he knew that none of it was to be.

As hours became days and days became weeks, he would consider his words and hers until he had thought on them so long that they almost entirely lost meaning. He would douse himself with brandy and be swept away by the current of increasingly bittersweet recollections—her sweet, soft lips, her airy laughter, her easy manners, her quick wit, her sparkling eyes. He would eventually spend days considering the few seconds of silence that had passed between them in that moment. It had seemed as though she had looked into his very soul. She had seen everything that he ever was or would ever be. And she had found him wanting.

But those thoughts came later.

At present, the words he unceremoniously spat forth stung them both as he raved. "I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, in such a manner of decidedly indifferent civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

Her eyes welled with tears as she hesitantly sought to remove her own hand from where it was clutched between his. To her horror, his grip tightened and she found herself either unable or unwilling to repeat the action a second time. She bit her lip in an attempt to maintain her composure. The single tear which traced its way down the curve of her cheek was left to serve as his only response.

"Fear not, madam. I would not have you shed a tear for my part," he rumbled. "I have long been destined to play the fool, and you have certainly provided the opportunity most graciously."

She turned her head, forcing herself to evade the stricken glare she could feel sweeping her face. He pressed on, undeterred by her silence—daring her.

"Truly, my Lady, I am forever in your debt. Would I had ever known the true nature of love, but for you? Certainly not! For I am ill-fitted to mercenary schemes or idle attachments. If not for you, I would have remained in ignorance of my own purpose—to play the fool. To love where no love can be returned. To cast myself at your feet, offering my very soul as payment for all I would gladly give to you freely, only to be cast off as a beggar. How should I ever repay you for delivering such a destiny, my love? It seems I have nothing that can tempt you."

He laughed then, but it was like no sound she had heard from him before. Gone was the throaty chuckle which had caused her to catch her breath so frequently when in his company. In its place was a sound she could only assume would better befit an injured animal.

"Desist!" she seethed, pulling her hand forcefully from his grasp. She cast a fiery glare in his direction, but she did not quite meet his eyes. White hot rage coursed through her very veins now. To think this was easy for her! To think she wanted this life! He, with all of the opportunities and advantages of a man, to think she had any choice at all!

"You have had your say, sir. And now I would have mine."

To her great relief, the gentleman did as instructed. Yet despite her indignation, she suddenly found herself in a rare condition of speechlessness. As much as she felt she might like to admonish him, punish him, or tease him—she could not bring a single word to mind!

He waited. She paced. Somewhere, a bird sang. Their eyes met. He waited. She paced. Neither could say how long they remained so engaged, but as he pressed his lips to hers in confirmation of an unspoken truce, words soon became unnecessary, and all but the strongest feelings were swept away by the cool breeze which fell upon them.

When the need for speech returned some time later, they found themselves seated together on a nearby fallen log. As she reclined against him, he pulled a small golden coin from its place in his coat pocket and ran it across the tops of his practiced fingers before her. She smiled at the sight of it, as he knew she would. They had tossed this same half-guinea often in their many years together; to settle childhood disagreements, elect a leader to appeal to cook's better nature, or to decide upon the course of their afternoon activities—and in one heartily mischievous moment from their fifteenth year, he had chanced to wager a chaste kiss in the formal gardens behind her father's house. He had won the touch of her lips and lost his heart to her in the space of a single breath. To think that such simple coin could purchase a treasure of memories!

"You will marry him then," he delivered flatly, the coin still dancing across his hand.

"Go on then, dearest," she replied with a laugh. "Ask our friend if you must." Though they both knew her answer, she would play along.

"Call your lot then, my Lady."

"I should think you would rather call yours," she quipped, pressing a soft kiss into his empty palm. He could not have kept the smile from his countenance if he had tried.

"And right you are, as ever," he grinned, pulling her deeper into his embrace. "Heads for your heart then, my love. Heads being the only choice for such an intelligent, accomplished, handsome, and enchanting woman… Especially one impertinent enough to insist upon the inclusion of such qualities in any description of her person, of course."

She could only laugh again in response to his melancholy jest, and she felt his familiar chuckle rumble against her for a final time before they were both silenced by the quick flip of the coin, which, as expected, soon revealed the upturned face of Queen Anne. It was fortune's folly that the heretofore fortuitous coin had landed once again in his favour—as it so often did—when they both knew that it meant nothing.

Heads or tails, she would still not be his. Heads or tails and she would still never consent to away with him to Gretna Green or anywhere else he had repeatedly beseeched her to consider. Heads or tails and the future he had allowed himself to imagine would forever remain a fruitless dream. It was but another diversion, another game—just as his proposal had been. Pretty words meant to distract them from their true and doubtlessly divergent paths, if only for a moment. Heads or tails, he knew the truth as well as she. None of it could ever be.

He bent his head into the hollow of her shoulder as he closed his fingers around the coin's decidedly grim visage—gently at first, reverently. He did not notice the rough ridges cutting into his skin until she placed her smooth hand atop his to still him.

"Leave with me," he murmured into the base of her neck, setting off a familiar tremor in her belly. She knew that the words sprang more out of habit than any serious request. As he had long known better than to await any affirmative response, he busied himself with dropping soft kisses onto her exposed skin. He moved slowly with the knowledge that they must be among their last. Against his own better judgement, he allowed one final plea to escape his lips as he continued his ministrations. "Leave with me, my darling girl, and you shall want for nothing. I swear that I shall love you all the days of my life, no matter where you lay your head. But I would much rather you laid it with mine."

"You know I cannot," she pleaded. "I would no sooner refuse my duty than regret you."

She stiffened slightly, and he endeavored to persuade his heart to accept its fate. It was not his first attempt, nor would it be the last. Eventually, he would cease trying. Still, he allowed the moment to settle on them both before continuing. It would not do argue any longer.

"Fickle woman," he relented at last. "I love you still."

Her small voice was almost a whisper now, though he knew enough of her to anticipate her reply even if she had kept the words to herself.

"As I love you, my dearest. Always."

For the moment, he felt at peace. He would bask in it as long as he could, though he knew it could not be for long. He had always known it might come to this, but he had hoped against all odds that it would not—that her father would see more than just the idealistic son of a country squire when he looked at him, that she might not attract the interest of any gentlemen too wealthy or too well connected for her father to refuse, that the luck of a single golden half-guinea would be on his side forever.

But it was not to be, and he knew it would not be long before all loving remembrances of his one true love were lost to him forever. Indeed, they were to be replaced all too soon by torturous fantasies of what he knew to be a less worthy man's wife.

"Always, my love," he echoed. "Always."

* * *

 **x x x**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 _"Me miserable! Which way shall I fly  
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?  
Whichever way I fly is hell; myself am hell;  
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,  
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,  
To which what I suffer seems a heaven."  
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV –_

 **Tuesday 21 April, 1812**  
 **London**

"Impossible woman!"

The towering figure of a young man stalked the length of the room, his pace emboldened by the equally involuntary and onerous recollections which raged within. His thunderous steps and frequent exclamations disturbed the usual solemnity of his grand study so much so that his butler, Mr. Maxwell, was compelled to look in on him. In return for his consideration, Maxwell found himself greeted with an unwelcoming scowl which twisted across his master's otherwise fine features. Maxwell, who was as wise, polite, dutiful, courteous, loyal, and ancillary as his position demanded, was above all other things, quite sensible. Sensible enough, that is, to immediately turn from the room and leave his master to his demons.

Once aware that his own features were safely concealed in the shadows of the great hall, Maxwell pressed his back to the stately door and rolled his eyes, thankful that none of the lower servants would glimpse the evidence of his own growing displeasure with master Darcy. He knew not what business, person, or circumstance had left his master in such an ill temper over the past fortnight, and although he did not necessarily wish to, he could not help himself from lamenting the master's own _impossible_ behaviour.

Master Darcy had rarely slept, eaten, or indeed sat still for ten minutes all-together since his unceremonious return from Rosings Park. Despite Maxwell's best efforts, the master seemed in a constant state of agitation. Most of the gentleman's time was spent ensconced in the study, where he would alternate between aimlessly milling about the room or urgently anticipating the completion of some mundane task that would doubtlessly go unfinished. Whether he decided to write a letter before ultimately giving up the practice in favor of a long walk through the halls, sat down to read a book before storming off to stare menacingly out a nearby window, or requested his business correspondence in such haste that Maxwell arrived near dripping with perspiration–only to discover that his master had entirely lost interest in the matter—it was all for naught. Maxwell did not believe the master had finished a single task he set out to accomplish in the weeks since his return—unless of course one counted the several bottles of brandy and port he had consumed amongst his efforts. Surely he had completed an overwhelming number of _those_.

A loud thud resounded from the opposite side of the door, followed by several intermittent, softer thumps that Maxwell assumed to be books falling from the shelves. He sighed, supposing he would have a full day of work tomorrow—what with the master's burgeoning penchant for disarray and the likely need to air the room in the morning. In all his twenty years in service, Maxwell had never felt a fortnight lasted so long. It was all he could do to continue masking his irritation with solemn nods and tight-lipped smiles while he appeased himself with what were rapidly becoming fond memories of young master Darcy's childhood spankings.

A new sound, something like metal clattering to the floor, struck Maxwell where he stood. With a groan, he straightened his coat, schooled his features, and made his way below stairs in anticipation of a long conversation with the housekeeper. Mrs. Norris would not be best pleased with the growing number of assignments necessary for her maids to complete in the morning, but for now, it could not be helped.

"Impossible indeed," scoffed Maxwell as he made his way to the paneled staircase–unaware but likely unsurprised that the young man on the other side of the study door continued to proclaim sentiments which were very much the same in parlance though perhaps not in perception.

After all, _he_ was a sensible man.

 **xxx**

"Impossible indeed!" Darcy sneered at his imaginary companion, whom he assumed to be seated across from himself in the high backed chairs near the fire. He raised a half-empty glass to the flames in a mock toast, his movements so abrupt that he nearly spilled the remainder of its contents across the fine Axminster carpet under his feet.

Impossible woman. Impossible reply. Impossible.

He had applied a great number of other descriptors to the lady in question in the several hours which had preceded this moment—most of which were decidedly less flattering than _impossible_. By now, he had ruminated at length through a veritable lexicon inspired by her character, her person, and her thoroughly exasperating expressions. _Foolish, vexing, headstrong, unfeeling, simple, vain, ill-favoured, vicious,_ and _hateful_ had all had their day, and he was at last struck by the futility of it all. Try as he might, none of them seemed to fit her, nor did they do his feelings any justice. Eventually, he had settled on impossible, not only because it so accurately depicted her own behaviour, but because it also reflected his own inability to reflect on the situation he now found himself in with any degree of clarity.

"Impossible," he mouthed again, shaking his head at the latest recitation of his newly adopted mantra. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and allowed his head to sink into his palm. He closed his eyes, the bottom of his glass tapping quietly against the arm of his chair. This most recent attempt to divert his thoughts, much like the others, was proving inadequate. Try as he might to conjure an appropriate synonym for _mendacious_ , the only word which currently came to mind was _beguiling_ —an infuriatingly polysemantic descriptor which fit certain _other_ aspects of her person all too well, and encouraged an altogether unwelcome shift in the direction his thoughts tended. It was infuriating. Though he could not stop himself from thinking of her, he had found some small victory in his ability to focus his attentions on her less estimable qualities. Few as they were, the garish spectres of her vulgar mother, occasionally soiled petticoats, and her callous, nonsensical misrepresentations of his own esteemable character were soon replaced by a flood of decidedly more tender recollections. They rose up inside him despite the mechanisms he designed for his distraction or the self-induced fog which clouded his mind—unbidden, unwanted, and impossible to escape. _Her bright eyes laughing at him across a crowded assembly room, her pursed lips struggling to contain a smile, the soothing scent of lavender rising from her soft curls, her graceful movements as they danced at Netherfield, the feeling of her warm hand in his._

He leaned his head back against the chair with a grumble and took a long sip from his glass.

 _The turn of her countenance as she aired her many grievances against his character._

He kicked back his head and finished his drink with a flourish. Huffing softly to himself, he reached for his decanter and proceeded to fill his glass. He could not remember how many times he had repeated the action this evening, but it was no matter. Whatever the sum, it was clearly not yet high enough. Though he had never been overly fond of spirits and certainly cursed his inability to direct his thoughts without the aid of drink at present, he could not help feeling grateful for the sense of numbness which would eventually overcome him. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not accustomed to wallowing, and the brandy helped.

Sinking back into his chair, he gulped as much of the amber liquid as his body would allow. Soon, his mind was much more agreeably engaged indeed, guiding his meditations from the very great displeasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.

Instead, he thought of his chair.

And a very fine chair it was!

Instead of the impossibility of the _indomitable_ , _tenacious_ and _entrancing_ Elizabeth Bennet, he preferred now to think of the words he would use to describe his chair, for it would surely be a better use of his time. _Grand, expensive,_ and _comfortable_ came to mind. Fashionable, too, which a chair ought to be if it could. Who could find fault with such a noble accoutrement? A very agreeable chair it was indeed! He had many such chairs, of course, in a variety of shapes, sizes, patterns, and colours. His enviable position as master of Pemberley allowed him ample access to an array of comfortable, fashionable, and valuable furnishings. He was sure she had none so fine.

In fact, he could hardly remember a comfortable moment spent at Longbourn! In what sort of seat did she find herself at this very moment? Was she haphazardly attending to her embroidery atop some shabby artifact pulled from the dregs of her father's ancestral hand-me-downs? Whatever she rested upon, it should have been consigned to the fire some years ago, no doubt!

"Hardly worth its weight in kindling," he assured his invisible companion. Yes, wherever she was, in her rickety seat which likely creaked as the sat and whose cushion was rubbed nearly threadbare, perhaps offering her backside a sharp edge now and again—which he could not regret—she was likely far less comfortable than he was at present. He smiled cheerlessly, the thought giving him some small joy.

Yes, she was likely very ill-settled indeed, shifting her weight atop some derelict heirloom in some drab sitting room in a small country town no one had ever heard of and were unlikely to ever hear of again now that she was so far removed from his own excellent company! He found that he enjoyed imagining her physical discomfort. If she were impertinent enough to remain _comfortable_ in her opinion of him, his character, his addresses—he winced—well, he would fill his imagination with thoughts of her low connections and abysmally deficient wares. In fact, he would buy new chairs as soon as he returned to Pemberley, he told himself. He would fill his rooms with them, and everyone would agree that he had the most comfortable and wholly agreeable furnishings in all of Derbyshire.

He took another long sip and congratulated himself on his fine accoutrements as well as his ability to think on anything other than Elizabeth Bennet.

 _"_ – _had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.''_

He groaned. There they were again. The words that haunted him.

He closed his eyes and sank into his—well, miserable and overly-extravagant chair, rather incensed by its luxury. He let the echoes come as they would and tried to ignore the tortured feeling which grew within his gut.

Despite his efforts, he could hear her strained voice clear as day and nearly make out the fire in her eyes when she spoke.

 _"_ _From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."_

Not for the first time, Darcy cursed his excellent memory.

He took a shaky breath and braced himself for what was to follow. She had certainly been _comfortable_ in her opinion of him then, likely as comfortable as he had been in anticipating her reply to his offer of marriage.

When his vision of the future had shattered before him, he had sought a way, any way, to regain his equilibrium. He had no hope for a reversal of her deeply held feelings and erroneous beliefs regarding the many apparent evils of his character. But, he admitted to himself, he could not bear to think that she was alive in the world and thinking ill of him. Or, at the very least, supporting such ill considerations of him with facts he knew to be untrue. And so, there had been a letter. That wretched letter, from which he could expect no reply!

He knew he could not defend himself with regards to her sister. In part, he still had no wish to. Despite what she or any other Bennet thought in Bingley's best interest, he remained of the mind that his friend could certainly do better for his choice of wife. Still, it was not his opinion on this score which mattered. If Bingley preferred a beautiful yet destitute wife with no connections to speak of, he was welcome to her. Bingley's situation in life was, of course, well and above that of the Bennets—despite the draw of a small country estate and what even Darcy assumed was a family lineage of at least an adequate length. As it was, Bingley was wealthy enough for ten Bennets together. When paired with the acquisition of a tolerable estate, his recent investments and inheritance would certainly increase his standing amongst the mothers and daughters of the _ton_.

Darcy was well aware of the fact that, given the entertainments of the day, far too many young gentlemen of name and consequence had little else to live on—leaving the wealthy sons of tradesmen free reign to woo their sisters, daughters, and the women that would have been their wives. Twenty years ago, a match with Bingley would have very well been regarded as reprehensible to the whole of London society. Today, he would be considered by some, if not a catch, at least a reasonable option for those inclined to fill family coffers depleted by a deluge of noble debts.

Yet, if Bingley were to forgo the lure of societal connections and choose a pretty face and a serene disposition, Darcy could hardly blame him. Bingley was affable to a fault. He deserved to love where he chose.

Darcy slung a long leg over one side of his chair and absentmindedly drummed his fingers against his thigh, propping the arm that held his glass atop a bent knee. He took a slow sip and swallowed hard against the rising burn in his chest.

Love had never been a consideration for Fitzwilliam Darcy. Love, or something like it, had never been a consideration for anyone in his family, as far as he knew. The first consideration was always the Darcy name. Next, the opportunity to grow the Darcy fortune. The Darcys had always married well, and they had much to show for it. Darcy himself had made a number of profitable investments, and he congratulated himself—not unduly, he believed—on being one of the most revered landowners in all of England. He would pass the Darcy wealth down the Darcy lineage, providing for the sons and daughters of Pemberley, their sons and daughters, and so on, thus fulfilling the promise his name had made to his ancestors on his behalf. With so many Darcys depending on him, including the dead or not yet living, love was barely a passing thought. He was sure many of his line had liked each other well enough, and perhaps even one or two had found a love match, but such partnerships were far from the rule and it would be a reach to even consider them an exception.

And yet, he had hoped, had he not? He had hoped for perhaps even longer than he knew. Was he not eight and twenty? Had he not given every thought to the importance of making a good marriage? He was not set against the idea of marrying for duty. Hardly so, as he was not inclined by nature to converse with or entertain the whims of strangers of either sex. He had long since believed that if he were to marry at all, an arranged marriage might save him time and no little trouble. It was a thought he had often considered sensible until he had spent any great length of time in the marriage market of town.

Must they all be so decidedly unbearable? Had he not considered daughter upon daughter of the _ton_ , only to find them wanting, in some aspect or another, enough to conclude that he could not marry them? Tall, short, trim, plump, primped, dark, freckled, and fair. They each claimed some command of the modern languages, sang, sketched, embroidered all manner of useless objects, danced, demurred, flattered, and flirted without fail. It would require a small army to keep any of them perfectly coiffed and in good company, but the thought that he might have to spend _any_ length of time seeing to such a woman's entertainment had sent his gut churning. Worse, they bored him. And so, he had stopped trying to justify his actions when it came to marriage, or rather, his lack of interest in the institution. He had told himself he had plenty of time. He had told himself that he had more important and pressing responsibilities that were of interest to him; his estate, his sister, his club, his holdings. The list went on and on.

A new thought struck him.

Had he been waiting for love?

Had he been waiting for… _Elizabeth Bennet?_

 _Oh dear_ — _No. Certainly not! He could hardly be so… W_ _ell,_ _it was impossible._

He reached back to the side table where he knew the answer to his many questions was stowed. Pulling the top off the bottle, he poured himself a portion of brandy large enough to account for an entire night of his usual consumption–prior to his departure from Rosings, at any rate.

With a sigh, he resolved to push thoughts of love, and especially any warm feelings relating to Elizabeth Bennet, far from his mind. In order to do so, he employed the next item on his list of sins against Elizabeth Bennet and the only remaining tool he had to turn his thoughts away from her—his equally disagreeable musings on the topic of George Wickham.

He took a thoughtful sip from his glass and—What had he just been thinking of? He pinched his brow between his fingers and tried to remember anything but Elizabeth.

 _Mr. Wickham_. Darcy's eyes narrowed. Yes, Wickham would do.

He stood rather too quickly and sauntered to his desk in order to obtain the latest evidence of the thorn in his side which was his father's godson.

It had been sometime during the first three or four days of his self-imposed banishment to Darcy House when he had received news of Wickham's latest exploits, or to be more specific, his latest ruined shopkeeper's daughter and his soon-to-be latest abandoned child.

The news was not as surprising to Darcy as it once had been. He supposed such an acknowledgment should distress him. However, this time, he found himself unable to summon the strength to care. Instead, he moved through the motions, having become reasonably familiar with them in the five years which had followed his father's death and left him responsible for the same services that George Darcy had employed in his godson's interests.

Darcy had written up the note to send to his solicitors entirely from memory. He did not wait for a response and he did not anticipate receiving one. He knew what would follow. A small sum would be set aside for the woman and her child. A distant country cottage would be obtained in the interest of shielding the woman's confinement and preserving what few tatters of her reputation remained. Once delivered, the child would either go to the woman's family, should they have any interest in taking such a burden on, or be placed with another of his solicitor's choosing. The woman would return to her home with enough money to purchase some second-rate husband's respect, or she would find a position where no one could be aware of her shameful secret. Darcy knew not and did his best to avoid thinking on it.

It was from such a fate Darcy had thought to save Elizabeth Bennet when he had written to her. He told himself that he had written what he had only to warn her of Wickham's true nature. He had told himself that, despite her feelings towards him—or his towards her, for that matter—it was his duty to impress upon her that he was not so devoid of feeling or character as to allow Wickham's sins to go unchallenged in Hertfordshire. If putting his history with the man in question on paper had the resulting effect of redeeming _some small part_ of her opinion of him, he would not concern himself with it.

The object of delivering the letter to Elizabeth Bennet, he congratulated himself once again, was to avoid the appearance of another missive similar to the one he had just received from his solicitor. A letter which would reach his house, sit atop his desk as he drank the night away, and inform him that the sum of some odd pounds was requested in order to provide for the child of George Wickham and a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, formerly of redeeming some, Hertfordshire.

He would never see Elizabeth again, of that he was certain. He would likely never even hear her name again—which he assumed must be preferable to hearing of her future engagement, marriage, or children. Still, it was this fate that he most wanted to avoid—seeing her name next to Wickham's on a scrap of paper in his study. He had thought her a better judge of character before their meeting at Hunsford, but after their… conversation, he could no longer be sure. In the end, he had decided that it was best she be informed. As Fitzwilliam had mentioned nothing to him on the subject during their return voyage to town, he had no idea if she had given any credence to his assertions—or, for that matter, if she had even broken the seal of his letter at all. It was this final point which vexed him above all others.

He took a slow drink and considered his actions should he ever receive the ultimate proof that she had done neither. What if his warnings went unheeded and Elizabeth Bennet paid the ultimate price for placing her trust in the wrong man? Would she sink so low? He would pay, of course. And what else? Would he go to her? Berate her? Provide for her? Despise her?

He knew not, and he prayed he never would.

Another swallow from his glass and he resumed the business of not thinking about Elizabeth Bennet. The effort was beginning to make him feel rather befuddled, but given the alternative, befuddled would have to do.

Back to Wickham, then.

For years, he had paid George Wickham's gambling debts in much the same way as he now provided for the women and children he cast aside. Even after Wickham had refused the living and been granted the sum of 3,000 additional pounds above his initial inheritance, he continued to mount debts and have them delivered to Darcy. He had paid them for years, faithfully discharging his father's regular duties to the man they all knew to be his favoured, though unrelated, son.

It was different after Georgiana, of course, but try as he might, Darcy still fought to reconcile the two Wickhams in his head and heart. When he returned from Ramsgate, Darcy had taken up the long overdue task of addressing Wickham's debts and the strains they placed on him. He had sent word to Wickham's collectors—at least those he had already been made aware of—and informed them that all current and future debts should be charged direct to George Wickham, of an address he knew not, but which was certainly not at Darcy House of London or Pemberley of Derbyshire. He did, on occasion, continue to buy up some of Wickham's debts, having long considered the option of having Wickham transported or sent to a debtor's prison. Still, each time he found himself on the verge of doing so, he remembered the mischievous boy with the bright eyes and the lopsided grin. He remembered the boy who had brought a smile to his mother's face and eased his father's pain after her loss.

Darcy sank back into his chair with a sigh, placing the latest letter confirming Wickham's artful deceptions beside his nearly empty decanter. He poured himself another glass and raised his feet up to meet the chair across from him. His imaginary friend had been supplanted by memories of what had seemed, for a time, to be a very real one.

He and George had been raised more like brothers than mere neighbors or unlikely friends from such disparate stations. They had played together in the groves of Pemberley, learned to hunt, fish, shoot, and swim. George had listened to all his boyhood secrets, teased him and laughed with him, and been there as he grieved the loss of his beloved mother. Foolish as it might have been, Darcy had always longed for the return of the young man he remembered. He had wished, rather than believed, that George— _no,_ _Wickham_ —had it in him to become that boy again. Even as a child, Darcy's reticent nature had made making friends difficult at best, and he had relied on Wickham's easygoing and affable manners to lead the way. He had confided in him, trusted him, loved him as a brother for all of his life, even when his behaviour had turned towards the libertine.

He, like his father, had looked away.

After all, George Darcy had never seemed particularly bothered by his godson's activities, preferring to see them as a series of youthful indiscretions that would soon be outgrown. It wasn't until much later that Darcy came to realize Wickham's behavior had won out over his character, rather than the other way around. He could not pinpoint the precise moment when the realization first struck him, but he believed it had likely coincided with the time he had discovered Wickham and Miss Ellen Ramsell, the only woman Darcy had ever thought himself in danger of loving, in an exceedingly compromising position. Even then, Darcy found it pained him more to lose respect for his near-brother than to lose the hope for a future with a woman he had briefly considered himself in love with. Now, nearly six years later, the wound caused by Wickham's defection continued to plague him more than he liked to admit to himself. What else was he to do? And so, he had continued paying the debts his wayward friend left in his wake and caring for the children he abandoned.

Lost in his musings, he failed to notice that he was no longer alone in his study until his untimely visitor was nearly upon him. In fact, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had burst through the door with great fanfare some moments earlier and was feeling quite put out to have been so egregiously overlooked. In an act of retribution, he raised his cane below his cousin's outstretched legs and knocked them from their perch, nearly landing Darcy on the floor in return.

"Really, old man. You've made quite a habit of being half in your cups when I come to call. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were drinking to make my company more tolerable."

"Go away, Richard."

The Colonel replied in his customary manner—with a wide grin and a wink. Darcy scowled.

Reaching for the decanter, the Colonel's hand stopped in midair as he noticed the solicitor's letter resting on Darcy's side table. He frowned as Darcy held it up for his inspection.

 _Well_ , the Colonel thought to himself. _At least I seem to have discovered the reason for Darcy's black mood of late._ With a shake of his head, he sought to attend to the ill tidings the letter contained. It did not take long for his own mood to turn.

"Again? After everything?" The Colonel huffed in disgust and sank into the empty chair across from his cousin. "Really, Darcy, you have to stop cleaning up after him. You're not his nursemaid."

"I don't pretend to be, Richard. But something must be done."

Darcy exhaled slowly and closed his eyes while his cousin considered him.

 _Something must be done indeed_ , the Colonel agreed silently. He let a long moment pass before he continued.

"Of course something must be done, and if you would let me call him out as I should have done last summer, we could be done with it for good."

Darcy only shrugged in response.

"Calling Wickham out would help Georgiana no more than it would any of these women, their children, his collectors, or me, for that matter."

Fitzwilliam let out a sharp guffaw at this, while inwardly acknowledging the truth of his cousin's statement. "So what is to be done then? We continue to feign ignorance and allow him to leave half of England ruined in his wake? You're a wealthy man to be sure, cousin, but I suspect even you will have a hard time feeding his wards once they outnumber the whole of the Darcy family tree."

Darcy waved him away. "Yes, something must be done. But not tonight," he sighed. "Tonight I have more pressing concerns."

"More pressing than Wickham?" Fitzwilliam made no attempt to hide his surprise and Darcy attempted to recover from his blunder.

"Business."

"Business?"

"I have said as much, Richard." Disguise of every sort may have been Darcy's abhorrence, but he could not and would not open any more of himself to Richard's inspection. Not tonight. He would rather think of chairs. Or perhaps sofas.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and thrust out a polished boot, kicking his cousin soundly in the shin.

"If you refuse to speak any more on whatever sort of _business_ concerns you, I can only hope that you come to your senses and tell me before it drowns you in your own brandy. However, I refuse to let you sit around in this stupid manner, drinking yourself into oblivion and attempting your best impersonation of Elliot Hurst. You will come out with me tonight."

"I will not."

"Come cousin. You are too young to drink your past away and too old to sit here moaning like a child. Also, your club is much more comfortable than mine." A familiar smirk crossed the Colonel's face then, though Darcy did his best to divert his attention by drawing out a fresh decanter of brandy. "You have the added misfortune that I am well aware that your credit at White's well exceeds my yearly allowance."

Darcy said nothing, but his cousin pressed on regardless. "Think of it as a compromise, for if you sit here any longer I will be forced to press you on the nature of your _business_ matters." He bent forward in his seat and motioned towards the fresh bottle with an outstretched hand.

In response, Darcy closed his eyes and reclined his head against the back of his chair, willing his cousin to disappear.

"So cousin," Colonel Fitzwilliam said brightly, "what is her name?"

With a grunt, Darcy raised himself to his feet. Gesturing towards the door, he directed what he hoped was a withering look at his formerly favorite cousin.

"I will ring for Maxwell."

"An excellent choice!"

Half an hour later, Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam found themselves somewhat comfortably ensconced in Darcy's regular table at White's, though one was admittedly much more comfortable than the other, perhaps owing to the very different matters on which their minds were engaged. For his part, Colonel Fitzwilliam continued to speculate on the true cause, or rather identity, of his cousin's present distress—when he was not otherwise occupied with cards, or drink, or conversation, that is. As for Darcy, he would spend the majority of his evening regretting his decision to leave the relative shelter of his study. He was not fit for company and he wished he had stayed home.

Unfortunately, this would soon prove to be the most sensible thought Fitzwilliam Darcy had had in weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

 _"Solitude sometimes is best society."  
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IX –_

Despite Colonel Fitzwilliam's many valiant efforts to the contrary, his increasingly taciturn cousin remained an unwilling participant in the many revelries available within the walls of 37–38 St James's Street and absolutely refused to be moved by even a single element of its enticing distractions. Instead, he scowled and stared and sipped his drink, rarely responding to his cousin's attempts at spirited conversation with more than a grunt, nod, or shake of the head. He made introductions only when necessary and seemed generally disinclined to continue any discussion beyond a smattering of syllables.

The other members of the most esteemed club ever mentioned within the hallowed confines of the London society pages seemed to take Darcy's poor temper in stride, staying at his corner table in the card room only long enough to execute the mandatory comments on the weather and to exchange bland inquiries regarding the health of each gentleman's family. Word of Darcy's ill-humor must have spread as the night went on, as fewer and fewer gentlemen had occasion to call on the table where the cousins remained in decidedly uneasy company. Gradually, those interested in less stilted conversations or a game of chance made their way to the other side of the room and Darcy could not but be glad of it. He remained lost in his own thoughts—thoughts which often turned without notice to a country Miss from Hertfordshire and settled on one or another of the many vehement declarations she had made on that awful day at his aunt's parsonage.

The few encounters with his fellow club members did afford Darcy one temporary comfort–the work of deciphering Elizabeth Bennet and her many grievances against him was momentarily suspended in the interest of attending to their conversation. One gentleman in particular, Mr. Strathmore, happened to be an especially close acquaintance of Mr. Bingley's as well. In a rare moment of relative loquacity following some particularly riveting discussions concerning the rain and Mrs. Strathmore's gout, Darcy chanced to extend the conversation further by asking the gentleman of any news he might have heard of their mutual friend.

Unfortunately for Darcy, Strathmore had little information regarding either Bingley's present situation or his whereabouts to offer. Darcy, suddenly perplexed by Bingley's near disappearance—for where could a gentleman of means be found during the height of the season if not in town?—continued to think on the topic of his friend at some length even after Strathmore had adjourned to the coffee room. Bingley's easy smile and amiable manners had endeared him to Darcy, and he felt his absence keenly as he glanced around the room at the gentlemen assembled that evening. Certainly, many of them were good friends of his, despite the growing ranks of Brummell's more fawning dandies. He should be glad to see them; to enjoy the company of Lord Molyneux over a game of piquet, distract himself by engaging the voracious Lord Alvanley in a lively battle of wits, or even allow himself the soothing balm of nostalgia which any conversation with Mr. Martindale ultimately induced. Martindale's own father had managed the club before him, and he was often inclined to share a tale or two of George Darcy with the son as it gave him leave to speak of his own dearly departed father.

And yet, he felt out of place, uncomfortable, exposed.

It occurred to him that he would be much more comfortable in Bingley's small parlour on Upper Seymour Street rather than the elegant card room he presently found himself in, even if it meant listening to Hurst drone on about the insupportability of everyone and everything he had encountered that day or dodging an onslaught of Miss Caroline Bingley's more brazen flirtations—which it always did. How many times had he sat in the same parlour, only to watch the clock and wonder at the earliest appropriate time to take his leave? It was disingenuous of him, at the very least, especially considering that almost from the first moments of their acquaintance some four years ago, Bingley had proved himself to be a good-natured, steadfast, and entirely artless sort of friend.

He had come upon Bingley in a coffee room several years prior, sometime after returning from his abbreviated Grand Tour of the continent. He had overheard the younger man engaging in a conversation regarding some speculation or other with Mr. Grimsley, a gentleman Darcy knew to be far from industrious when it came to matters of business and rather forgetful when it came time to pay his partners their due. Darcy thought he recognized Bingley as the new brother-in-law of his old schoolfellow, Elliot Hurst. The young man seemed agreeable to the proposed arrangements–a little too agreeable, in fact. Owing more to instinct than inclination, Darcy had inserted himself into the pair's conversation in a manner which was both kindly meant and grossly impolite. When Grimsley realized Darcy would not be quitting the table, the gentleman took his own leave, promising to call on Bingley when he found himself "less distracted by the grandeur of society." Upon his exit, Darcy had fumbled his way through an apology and attempted to explain Grimsley's murky reputation with his former business partners without giving way to undue gossip. He was quite shocked when, rather than taking offense, Bingley had clapped him on the back and laughed heartily, offering to buy him a drink for his trouble. They had been near inseparable ever since, and although Darcy had long prided himself on assuming the role of a discerning elder brother for the younger, undoubtedly greener gentleman, he began to consider that he had not been entirely fair to think only of what Bingley gained from their relationship. He would certainly appreciate his friend's cheerful humor and guileless smiles now.

Instead, Darcy found himself in the rather unusual and uncomfortable position of realizing he had erred in his duties. Had he not? He realized now that he must have done, for he had not heard from Bingley since he set off for Rosings some weeks earlier. The thought soon occurred to him that Bingley had grown increasingly distant since their party left Hertfordshire in November. At the time, he had assumed this behaviour had everything to do with the natural pain which must accompany disappointed hopes, but now, knowing such bitter feelings himself, he could not help but wonder if there was something more to it. Should Bingley not have desired his company in the days and weeks after learning of 'his angel's' thinly veiled disinterest in him, as Darcy now wished for Bingley's? And though he had returned to town over a fortnight ago, Bingley had not called. Darcy had also written at least twice from Rosings, on some matter of business or pleasure which now escaped him, but, for the first time, he realized that he had received no reply. Could Bingley mean to discontinue the relationship for some reason? A friendship from which he stood to gain so much in the way of society? To cut _him_?

"Impossible," Darcy muttered to himself absentmindedly.

The Colonel, for his part, entirely failed to notice the first word the brooding gentleman occupying the seat next to him had uttered over the course of a quarter hour, as he was practically incensed himself. He had set out to rouse Darcy from his present state of gloom only to find that his cousin's mood darkened with every passing minute. In an effort to amuse himself and engage his sour-faced companion, he had alternated between raising various topics he felt, or rather knew Darcy felt, were worthy of debate, or attempted to make himself scarce in the interest of cards and more pleasant conversation. Unfortunately, the Colonel's own state of distraction was not conducive to crack card play. While he had hoped his efforts would draw Darcy out, the gentleman seemed permanently affixed to his seat—and the Colonel had felt his pockets lighten at a frightful pace as a result.

"He might as well be a mute," Colonel Fitzwilliam grumbled quietly, "for all the time he spends in amiable conversation." He rolled his eyes, as much at his own behaviour as Darcy's. He was not typically the sort who whispered incivilities under his breath, but he also knew that his own cheerful disposition had begun to collapse under the weight of Darcy's glower as the hours dragged on. Sharing the better part of an evening with a despondent Darcy certainly had its price. Given the choice, he preferred to lose his lot at gambling.

He could avoid his fate no longer. He would poke the bear and see what came of it.

"You are quite dull this evening, cousin."

Darcy turned his gaze from the spot on the wall he had been considering for the better part of an hour and faced his cousin. He raised an eyebrow in a half-hearted attempt at good humour. It was not well received.

"I have been called worse."

The Colonel adopted a look of incredulity. "Really? I must own that I am surprised! Not that your behaviour could be described in lesser terms than dull, of course. You are perfectly insufferable at the moment." He paused for effect, emphasizing his disbelief with a stern shake of his head as he took on a serious tone. "However, I am quite shocked that anyone should actually mention it to you, for though I have watched a throng of gentlemen parade before your displeasure this evening, not a single one of them has had any criticism to offer beyond their collective dissatisfaction with the weather." He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands atop his lap, and stared his cousin down in a manner he had worked to perfect since childhood. "Compelling observations as they are, they certainly afford much less opportunity for censure than your current, shall we say, charmingly disagreeable disposition?"

Darcy was unmoved by his cousin's preamble and even less so by his cavalier posturing. He knew this particular look of Richard's well, and he had worked to perfect his response to it since childhood. He stared off into the distance at nothing, thoroughly aloof, and allowed a long moment to pass as he savored his drink.

Just as his cousin rounded the limits of his patience, Darcy spoke.

"You are quite garrulous this evening, cousin."

Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. The game was on.

"Yes. I believe there is a minimum amount of polite conversation required when one visits White's, and it seems I am to meant to pay down the debt for both of us this evening." The Colonel's tone may have been detached, but his eyes sparkled with merriment.

"And you would call this conversation polite?"

"Not at all!" the Colonel gasped, seemingly affronted. "For it is common knowledge that the minimum amount of _impolite_ conversation required within one's club far exceeds that of the polite. It is practically a club rule. If you don't believe me, go ask Brummel, if you can tear him from that glass box of his—or Prinny himself, if you can pry him from the sweets table. Better yet, go and find one of the old ones, they never forget a thing. It's part of their particular… charm. And they are endlessly obsessed with attempting to appear useful these days, given that the new fashions leave little else to recommend them."

Entirely against his will, Darcy felt the corner of his lips twisting upwards in something like a smile. The effect was not of long duration, but his cousin was glad to see it nonetheless. "I cannot disagree with you," Darcy replied thoughtfully while he properly schooled his features. "Though I believe you have now met your target for insolence and we may return to more pleasant topics of conversation."

After such a promising turn, the prompt restoration of Darcy's haughty airs nearly drove even the battle-hardened Colonel Fitzwilliam to distraction.

"Of course, Mr. Darcy," he snipped, rolling his eyes. "Let us speak of more pleasant topics then. The weather perhaps? How do you find it? I absolutely must know."

Another long moment passed, the duration of which had nothing to do with childhood antics. Darcy took in and released a deep breath.

"Richard, I have had quite enough."

Under normal circumstances, Colonel Fitzwilliam would have further exercised his proclivity to tease. However, something about the way his cousin delivered the words led him to believe that _these_ were far from normal circumstances. What had happened to affect his cousin so? How—or who—what could have done it? The realization that he had never seen his cousin in such a prolonged and dour state, even following the death of his father, gave him room for pause.

Still, he had poked the bear. And he had received its attention in return. There was no turning back now.

The Colonel glanced around the room, assuring himself that no one was near enough to overhear what he intended for his cousin alone. When he spoke, it was in a low voice only slightly above a whisper.

"As have I, cousin. I am tired of exchanging words when we require conversation. Will you not relent and tell me what troubles you so? I cannot help you if you will not tell me what has happened… and something has happened. I know you too well for you to continue embarrassing us both with such a charade."

He leaned forward to settle a serious look on his cousin. His countenance meant to censure, but his eyes were soft and imploring.

Darcy had been agitated for weeks, but as he met his cousin's sympathetic gaze, he felt his anger rising for the first time since the pair had ridden away from Rosings Park together in silence. Richard, who had so few concerns. Richard, who knew nothing of embarrassment. Richard, who had laughed with her, teased her, turned her pages, and collected her smiles like tokens! Kind, amiable, waggish Richard, whom Elizabeth preferred, and, had he asked, would likely have been accepted without a second thought.

The last man Elizabeth Bennet could ever be prevailed upon to marry could not keep the spite from his voice as he cut back at the Colonel in a terse whisper.

"And for what purpose would you have us converse, Richard? Are we to compare our thoughts on the topic of my sister and her abominable behaviour? Run ourselves in circles over what is to be done with her, where she is to go, who is to be trusted near her? No?" He felt his features settling into a sneer, but he had gone too far. He was unable to stop himself.

The Colonel said nothing, but he returned his cousin's glare well enough for both men to understand that a line had been crossed. Neither of them could know that it was only the first of many that evening, although in retrospect, they would recognize the signs and wish they had paid more attention.

Unfortunately, at present, Darcy no longer cared. Richard did not, could not, understand. How could he? No matter what problems arose; Wickham, Georgiana, even their family legacy—Richard could run off to chase Napoleon at the drop of a cap and put it all behind him, leaving Darcy to clean up the mess, every mess, only to return with offers of support and encouragement when all was settled. And there was judgement, too. Darcy had seen it after Ramsgate. Yes, Richard was only too happy to offer his support and encouragement to poor, dear Georgiana—but Darcy had felt his censure keenly. Whether or not he would speak the words aloud, his cousin blamed him as much as he blamed Wickham, if not more. And although Darcy had not acquitted himself of his share by any stretch of the imagination, he could not help but consider how Georgiana's behaviour might have differed had she _two_ guardians attending to her education, or at least one who did not continuously undermine the efforts of the other with his lighthearted humor, sunny smiles, and constant jests.

 _If only his attentions to Georgiana were half as constant._

And so, Richard had gotten his wish. He had poked the bear and the beast was angry. He was jealous. He was _tired_.

"Perhaps you would rather discuss the trail of ruined shopkeeper's daughters across southern England! Or of unpaid gambling debts?" Darcy's voice seemed to take on a mocking tone of its own volition now, and neither man was pleased by it. "What will become of the poor souls, who will take them in? What of the children and their families? What is to be done with them? _Who_ is to care for them?"

He tightened his fists, nearly trembling with rage as he felt the full weight of his cousin's inconstancy for the first time.

"I assure you, Richard, none of it is any of your concern. I feel your disapproval just as well as I always have. You needn't trouble yourself with the details. I will attend to those women and children just as faithfully as I will see to my crops, my tenants, my lands, my investments, the whole of my aunt's estate, and my own sister's behaviour. _I_ will."

Their voices had become louder now, though not so loud as to attract the notice of the gentlemen gathered across the room, still lost in their own riotous laughter and intrigues.

The Colonel was shocked. Who was this angry, bitter, disagreeable man? He hardly recognized him, and in truth, his response better befitted a stranger. He would come to heartily regret the next words which erupted from him in a rare movement of spiteful passion, and though he suspected as much even as they tumbled forth, he could do nothing to stop them.

"You will, will you?!" he seethed. "As faithfully as you have seen to our Georgiana these last months? As carefully as you have attended to the obligations and kindnesses _we_ owe to her, _our own_ ward? I suppose I need not worry then, for each woman shall receive a farthing for her trouble and the babe shall be adequately swaddled and left for the rag man while their father hurries off to provide them a sibling—his steps made lighter by the Darcy purse and the sure knowledge that he lives and loves as he pleases. Freely, and without a care in the world! I suppose you would like me to congratulate you on your fine work? Well then, congratulations, cousin. You have made a right mess of it. I am sure my dear aunt would be very proud of the fine man her son has become. Such deep pockets to solve all his troubles!"

If Darcy felt as though he had reached the limits of his patience before, this was beyond the pale. He felt a violent urge welling up within him and consciously avoided looking in his cousin's direction as he stood and calmly exited the room through a side door. He did not recognize himself at the moment and it worried him that he did not know what sort of behavior _this_ Darcy might be capable of in such a state.

He had never truly argued with his cousin. And, even if he had, he was certainly not the type to exchange such heated words in the card room of his club, surrounded by the biggest ears and loudest mouths of the _ton_.

Fuming, Darcy made his way through the doors and strode into the walled courtyard of the club. Finding it deserted, he folded himself onto a low stone bench underneath an elaborately arranged arc of trees and attempted to calm himself to no avail.

All evening, he had been trying to free himself from the crushing weight of burdens so unfairly placed on him by the hands of others. His father, Wickham, Georgiana, Bingley, even Elizabeth Bennet! Who were they to decide every action, every worry, every feeling, every consideration of his life? He was his own man, and yet he felt nothing of the kind. In this moment, he imagined himself a prisoner, shackled by the demands of duty, propriety, and yes, _gentlemanly behavior_.

Should he not be tired of behaving against his own inclinations? Of stifling the voice inside him which begged him to act, not as his father's son, not as the master of Pemberley, or even the guardian of a young and impressionable sister, but as Fitzwilliam Darcy? He had believed himself above the fray, so often doing what he wanted and little else, going where he chose, speaking and behaving as he liked. He realized now that, despite all expressions of such paramount independence, he remained almost constantly prevailed upon by the wills of others; performing for them, playing their parts, offering them everything, and receiving nothing in return.

He had paid Wickham's debts and taken on his scandals when he ought to have thrown him to the wolves long ago. He had wanted nothing more than to toss him from the tower all those years ago at Cambridge, when he had first seen George Wickham for what he was—but he had not. What had he done? He had gone to his father. And what had his father done? He could hardly bring himself to remember the way George Darcy had acted that day. The behaviour his father had exhibited had been so far removed from what the son knew of his good character. George Darcy had coughed in surprise as Darcy stammered out the words. Then, barely able to hold his characteristic howling laugh, his father had leaned back in his chair and capped off the entire humiliating experience with a low whistle.

And _Georgiana_? He had given Georgiana every consideration, every comfort, every freedom which a young woman could want for. And what had she done to repay such brotherly affection? She had betrayed the name they shared, her own sense of honour, and _him_ , the brother who thought only of her happiness! He had run off to the country with Bingley as soon as she was settled—ready to forget the shame, regret, and anger which had consumed him since the incident at Ramsgate. And what had he done when he arrived in Hertfordshire?

He groaned, leaning his head back against the bench and pressed his hands over his closed eyes.

He knew _exactly_ what he had done, and if he somehow managed to forget, he had Elizabeth's own narrative playing constantly in his head to remind him. He had battled against his attraction to the enchanting, mesmerizing, and all-together too lovely daughter of a country gentleman and made himself a fool in the process. He had sought to distance himself from her again and again, only to find himself drawn back to her side by some powerful, invisible current. Despite the strength of her charms, he had told himself that he must recognize his duty came first—his duty to his _name_ , his _home_ , his _family_ , his _sister_! And so, he had remained silent when he yearned to speak, averted his gaze while he hungered for the briefest meeting with her bright eyes, and kept the hands which longed to reach for her firmly planted at his sides. And when he had finally relented, allowed himself to experience those feelings and speak those words his inner voice had long ached to whisper to her, it had been too late to save him from himself.

She had seen him for what he was—a pretender.

But even before that horrible moment bookended his present misery, he had taken up with Bingley's sisters in an effort which ought not to have concerned him any more than Bingley bothered himself with _his_ marriage prospects. Yet he, in all his righteous Darcy glory, had deigned to save his friend from what he assumed to be an unequal marriage in both station and affection. And what had come of his efforts? He had evidently lost the good opinion of his friend, destroyed all hope of winning the heart of the very woman he desperately craved without equal, and apparently managed to crush all the lifelong hopes and fluttering feelings of her dearest, eldest sister, whom he could barely remember speaking to throughout the entire course of their acquaintance. What a particular talent he had!

His head suddenly spinning from the effects of too much brandy and too little release, he leaned his head against the trunk at his back and raked an unsteady hand through his hair.

It was all too much.

He should have stayed home.

 _Blasted Richard, who would not listen to reason_ —

He did not have time to finish this thought, as none other than Blasted Richard himself appeared at that very moment.

 _Just like Richard, to show up when he is least needed!_

He no longer cared where they were. He no longer cared what his cousin wanted from him, nor anyone else for that matter. A well of rage had burst beneath him and he could not, would not, will it closed. His cousin's insults from the card room continued to ring in his ears, though they were somewhat muffled by the thunderous rush of blood as it pounded through his veins every time he chanced a look at Richard. He seethed as his eyes narrowed into leaden barbs, sending sparks across the courtyard as he stood to face his cousin.

"How _dare_ you."

Colonel Fitzwilliam caught the fire in his cousin's eyes and instinctively took a step back. Even on the battlefield, he had never encountered anything like it. His cousin, who had grown up at his side, spent his summers swimming bare as the day he was born in his pond, and who had once proclaimed his favourite days were those spent picking berries with his sister—was positively menacing.

Well, he had poked the bear, after all. What had he been expecting? Still, this could not stand. Darcy would be made to see reason, one way or another.

"How dare _I_? Cousin, if you would only—"

In such a state of distraction, neither cousin had noticed the broad shadow of a man as he approached them. They could hardly be expected to anticipate his entrance into their quarrel, let alone their lives, knowing nothing of him as they did at the time. Nor could they be aware of how much of their conversation he had already overheard. If they had, perhaps they would have appreciated the near poetic irony of it all. That he, of all people, should be standing there beside them at such a moment, under a gnarled old oak tree of all things, studiously considering all that he had overheard alongside all that he had already known, asking himself questions, resolving to find answers, preparing his strike—only to see the very man he had come to see strike first.

Strike his cousin, that is.

Somewhere, a bird sang.

Yes, it was a night for the poets indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Today's post is a short but important chapter! I know a lot of people are upset with Darcy for acting like a perfect spoiled brat at the moment, and well, I don't blame you! He _is_ a spoiled brat. He makes no apologies for his behavior, so I won't either. Not yet, anyway!

I'm sure he'll pull it together sooner or later... and for poor Colonel Fitzwilliam's sake, I certainly hope it's sooner!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

 _"As if (which might induce us to accord)  
_ _Man had not hellish foes enough besides,  
_ _That day and night for his destruction wait."  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II –_

Dueling, though now illegal, had long been considered the gentleman's preferred method of defending one's honour. Only commoners brawled in the streets, as every man worth their breeding knew, though from time to time, the element of drink, when taken in combination with some seemingly worthy inducement—usually in the form of either money or women—would lead to outbursts of some rather ungentlemanlike behaviour in even the most prestigious card rooms, great halls, and fine houses in the country.

One such episode, which took place in the small courtyard of White's on one clear late April evening, would later be considered as the precise moment when everything changed for Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. His own behaviour at the moment in question could hardly be called gentlemanly, but it did have the advantage of achieving the desired effect for more than one party that evening—which was more than most such scuffles generally accounted to.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned back to his cousin and raised his right hand to cradle his jaw. "Well, cousin," he chuckled, "I hereby rescind everything I said earlier about your disagreeable disposition being in any way charming this evening."

With a grin, he eyed his cousin as the younger man shook out his fist and clenched his hands together, rubbing his knuckles through tense fingers.

"Not quite what you expected?" The Colonel remarked with a wink. "We'll get some ice for you back at Darcy House, cousin. Wouldn't want that blunderbuss of yours to swell and ruin all your fancy gloves."

Darcy glanced up from his hands in irritation, the stinging in his fist nearly forgotten. Meanwhile, his cousin had nearly doubled over with laughter.

"I thought you might be a trifle disguised this evening, cousin. But I begin to think you've gone full lion! To strike a Colonel in His Majesty's army! And to think that I've worn my best buttons tonight! And at White's, of all places in Christendom! Darcy, it really is too rich to be believed!"

"That will be quite enough, Richard," Darcy shot back grimly.

"What are you going to do, Darcy?" The Colonel teased. "Hit me? Perhaps you might oblige me and go inside before you try your luck again. I would love nothing more than to see the look on mother's face when the next society pages wax eloquent on the exploits of a certain Mr. D and Colonel F. of D-shire."

For a moment, the two cousins regarded one another in silence as the muffled sounds of more gentlemanly pursuits—cards and gossip—floated in on the breeze from the room they had exited only moments before.

For his part, Darcy tried as best he could to hold onto his anger—or his agitation at the very least—but soon found his features winding into a conciliatory smile. Richard had that effect on him. The bemused grin which now swept across the face of each gentleman was no more an apology for one than the other. Instead, their mutual expressions served as a steady truce between two cousins who knew, respected, and appreciated so much of one another's character. There was for the two to discuss, but it would not be done tonight. There would be a time for agitation later—a time to revisit words spoken in anger, accusations made, and, of course, such a preposterous action.

 _It was too much._

Darcy heard his own laughter before he felt it. The Colonel quickly joined him, leaning forward to rest one arm on his bent legs while the other remained at his jaw, stroking away the tension and ire which had hit him with full force only moments earlier.

"I'm sorry cousin, I really am," Richard chortled gleefully, "but you must admit that I have far more experience receiving blows to the jaw than you have bestowing them. It was a rather valiant attempt though, I grant you! If I respected you less, I might have winced more."

Darcy shook his head, "Richard, I cannot tell you—"

It was at that moment that both cousins became aware of the presence of the third party present in the courtyard that evening.

The gentleman stood a few feet away, reclining casually against the trunk of a small tree—the slight, distant smile playing on his lips the only indication he had attended any part of their conversation.

While the cousins plainly attempted to take stock of the man, the gentleman himself had time to consider his own observations.

He had been waiting for the opportunity to cross Fitzwilliam Darcy's path for some time, of course, although he'd convinced his old friend Lord William Russell to extend an invitation to White's only a few nights earlier. It hadn't been difficult. He had known Lord Russell for years, being related through the marriage of some very distant cousins whom he himself barely recalled. The two had always been on good terms, but after the death of his beloved Lady Charlotte only three years earlier, Russell had acted with uncharacteristic haste to renew the acquaintance once his admittedly distant relation returned to town.

After only a few well-placed comments regarding his growing dissatisfaction with the company at his own club, Boodle's, Lord Russell had practically called for the ballot box that very evening. He had begged off, of course, claiming that a decision as _momentous_ as signing a club register, especially one so esteemed as White's, should require at least an equal measure of consideration. After all, not a single gentlemen had ever willingly retired from the club, and he had carefully explained that he had no wish to involve himself _or Lord Russell_ in the scandal which would undoubtedly follow his being the first, should his now rather infamous inclination towards the spontaneous lead him in another direction. Worse, if he found himself the recipient of a black ball in the club's ballot box, he would find it much harder to achieve his true purpose in coming to town. It hadn't taken him long to persuade his friend—ever the conscientious patrician—that they would both be better off if he were to become more familiar with the gentlemen who gathered and dined at White's before making any more permanent arrangements.

Well, one gentleman, anyway.

While he had enjoyed Lord Russell's company well enough, he was certainly no confidante. And so, he neglected to mention that he had no interest in joining White's—now or ever. And though his wit, reputation, and popularity amongst the gentlemen of the _ton_ certainly were points in his favour, he knew had no guarantee of being admitted as a full member even if he had wanted to join. While Lord Russell had assured him that even some of the more fastidious club elders had become somewhat attracted to the novelty of having a few 'men of action' such as himself within their ranks—it wasn't worth the risk as far as he was concerned, and the point was inconsequential at best. He had one object when it came to visiting White's—and that object now stood a mere five paces from him, still as a statue, the very picture of propriety.

He made note of the man's quick recovery from his fit of distemper and filed the thought away for later inspection. His sole intent—for now—was to match the glacial stare which emanated from the familiar pair of dark eyes fixed on his.

 _What luck!_

It may have surprised the gentleman to know that Fitzwilliam Darcy was having a very similar thought at the moment—though the sentiments attached were quite different.

 _What luck_ , Darcy bristled—his momentary flash of good humour extinguished. He supposed he should be grateful that his altercation with Richard hadn't attracted more attention from the club, but his stomach lurched at the thought that they had acquired an audience of any size. _And a stranger at that,_ Darcy groaned inwardly. Whoever this man was, Darcy certainly couldn't count on his discretion.

The long moment of silence which had followed the interloper's entrance into the courtyard was now making its presence felt—and though Darcy could not account for the chill he now felt creeping up his spine, he suddenly felt as though the gentleman's discretion might prove to be the least of his concerns.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, still recovering from the shock of the interruption as much as the blow to his jaw, shifted slightly and turned to address the unknown figure.

However, it was the gentleman who would speak first.

"I beg your pardon, sirs. I could not help but overhear—" he paused and gestured in the direction of the card room "—some of the gentlemen inside remarking on the presence of Mr. Darcy this evening." He took a step forward, closing the distance between the three men and nodded towards Darcy, offering a crooked grin that—Darcy could not help but notice—did not quite reach his eyes.

Darcy remained still, irritated that he was unable to enact his typical response to a challenge such as the one which the unknown man's unwavering stare presented. As the stranger moved forward, Darcy realized that the gentleman's height—which equalled his own—would not allow for him to adopt a sufficiently foreboding posture. In lieu of physical intimidation, he remained where he was and continued to stare blankly at the man as he continued in a decidedly unaffected manner.

"I knew at once that I had to seek you out, of course."

Darcy's countenance remained frozen in an unreadable mask, though he was becoming increasingly unsettled—a development which annoyed him greatly.

The stranger was decidedly less distracted.

 _He hasn't said a word_ , he mused to himself, _and yet he finds a way to be insufferably arrogant. Yes, this boy is every inch a Darcy._

Undeterred, he offered a slight bow in the cousins' direction.

"Ah, yes. Of course, we have not been introduced," the man practically sneered, his voice dripping with innuendo. "I am aware of the overwhelming impropriety such an imposition provides. You and your cousin the Colonel must feel positively scandalized." He seemed to remember himself during the course of his speech and straightened his posture even further before continuing. "But though it has been some time since I have made either of your acquaintance, we have met before."

The allusions made to the cousins' behaviour stitched into the gentleman's introduction were not lost on Darcy, and he considered how unlikely it was that either he or his cousin had ever made his acquaintance. He had no memory of ever seeing the man before and had always congratulated himself—until recently—on the many benefits of having an excellent memory.

He briefly lowered his eyes to sweep the gentleman's form. He was tall and of a fair complexion. His eyes, the colour of smoke, complemented a firm countenance which was only enhanced by the decided set of his squared, solemn jaw. His face was framed by the subtle wisps of tawny hair which spilt forward and curled lightly around his features, his temples barely touched by light flecks of grey. He was older than either cousin, Darcy assumed somewhere in his late fortieth years—though, as the gentleman stepped into better light, Darcy made note of the slight gathering of lines about his steel-grey eyes and recognized a certain weariness which at once betrayed him. If such eyes were to be believed, this man might be older than the peaks themselves. Yet, unlike many of the elder men of Darcy's acquaintance, the stranger was undoubtedly fit for a man of his years and clearly an active sort. Certainly this was not some languishing Earl or spindly statesman. He might as well best Darcy in a match, for all he knew. The thought was an unwelcome one, and Darcy pushed it away as he turned his attention to his dress.

He was well-fitted, and much like his own, the gentleman's clothes were made of the finest materials. He was not a dandy by any stretch of the imagination, but it was impossible to ignore the quality of his silk waistcoat, the apparent expertise of his tailor, or the intricate and well-executed tie of his cravat.

Still, there was something about the gentleman that Darcy did not—could not bring himself to trust. His eyes narrowed of their own accord and he felt an itch traveling up the length of his body. _Something_ about this man set him on edge. He was not accustomed to the feeling and he hoped it would be of short duration.

What was his purpose with them? Some scheme? Were they to be ransomed in his own club? Darcy had heard of such things occurring in some of the lesser clubs and gaming halls around town—well dressed criminals posing as gentlemen, offering investment opportunities so enticing and implausible that they had convinced more than one well born bacon-brain to sink his fortune into a bottomless well of no return.

He cleared his throat in agitated confusion, preparing to inquire as to the nature of their presumed acquaintance in a manner as civil as he could muster—which was likely to be decidedly _un_ civil at present, when Colonel Fitzwilliam startled him back into silence. He had entirely forgotten his cousin's presence.

"I am afraid you have us at a disadvantage, sir. I don't believe we have heard your name."

"How positively savage of me, gentlemen! I am Hyatt Hadley." The gentleman punctuated his introduction with another step forward and looked well pleased by the Colonel's attempt at ease.

Darcy's eyebrows rose in surprise at his advance.

 _You are entirely close enough._

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, I believe you know my estate, Foxhollow Hall, as it is located quite near your father's. It is nothing to Milton Hall or Wentworth Woodhouse, of course, but I was very well acquainted with the Fitzwilliams at one time."

He turned to Darcy, feeling a familiar twist in his gut as he met the younger man's gaze through the shadows. Even in the near-dark of the walled courtyard, he would know those eyes anywhere.

"And Mr. Darcy. I can claim an acquaintance with your own father, George Darcy, as well. I understand that he has passed?"

Darcy gave a nod in his direction, but the gentleman issued no additional condolences. Instead, he tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips together to form a tight smile. "Your father was… certainly unparalleled, in both character and deed."

The long-sought object of his attentions only returned his stare.

"I already see so much of him in you."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I hope you enjoyed your brief reprieve from Darcy's brood-a-thon because today's post is positively thick with some fresh meat for the broodiest broody broods ever brooded (though not all Darcy's)!

Thank you for reading, faving, and following!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 _"But what will not ambition and revenge  
Descend to? Who aspires must down as low  
As high he soared, obnoxious first or last  
To basest things."  
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book XI –_

 **Friday 24 April, 1812  
** **London**

On the morning following the unsettling evening at White's Darcy had awoken to find that an equally unpleasant miasma of grime and vapour had settled over town during the few hours sleep had claimed him. The thick, sodden air refused to retreat as the days passed—an unusual, irritating, and confounding misfortune that was therefore destined to become the _chef d'oeuvre_ of every drawing room of consequence in London. The sons and daughters of the _ton_ were only too glad to set aside the usual prattle regarding the mildness of the spring and its fashions in favour of much weightier topics. As such, they were soon engaged in the very serious business of relating every nuance, expression, and consequence of the ominous weather to one another—each of their colourful narratives more tastefully exaggerated the last.

For Darcy, the murky haze settling upon town mirrored his own uncommon feelings of apprehension and doubt well enough that no exaggeration as to a prophetic bent was necessary. Three long days had passed since the ill-advised trip to his club, the quarrel with his cousin, and his uncomfortable meeting with the gentleman who called himself Hyatt Hadley. Although Colonel Fitzwilliam had somewhat warmed to Mr. Hadley after the shock of their first meeting, a greater familiarity with the gentleman's estate and former connections with the Fitzwilliams did nothing to increase Darcy's own comfort in his presence. Though he could not fix upon a precise look, turn of phrase, or sensation that struck him as either dangerous or even particularly insincere on the part of the stranger from Northamptonshire, Darcy remained unaccountably wary of the gentleman.

Initially, he had no wish to investigate the source of his unease in Mr. Hadley's presence. He certainly had enough on his mind as it was. He had no need to imagine any additional burdens for himself related to any vague, guarded feelings he encountered in the presence of a man very likely to remain a complete stranger. However, a further acquaintance with Mr. Hadley left him with two distinct impressions. The first was the unwelcome—yet not wholly unexpected—realization that no matter his present or potentially future concerns, he was unable to free himself of the spectre of Elizabeth Bennet. Despite all his present worries and concerns, she continued to suffuse his every thought.

In the past several days he had sought nearly every possible distraction in an experimental effort at self-preservation. The findings were grim. Perhaps most troubling, he realized that his reveries were no longer limited to simple reflections of time spent in her presence—both pleasant and unpleasant. Instead, his musings on Elizabeth— _Miss Bennet_ were as irrevocably, wretchedly fixed to his present as she was to his past.

What was she doing now? Was the thinking of him? Regretting him? Censuring him? Did she spend her nights playing lively tunes for company or was she bent over a book, her fingers gracefully stroking the pages as she pursed her lips in contemplation? It had been unseasonably damp this season—what sort of book would she enjoy on a rainy day? Would she curl up in front of the fire to devour a romantic novel, or was she inclined to reconsider the classics? He already knew her feelings on poetry, of course. It was nearly noon. Was she walking through the footpaths of Hertfordshire at this very moment—her chestnut locks uncovered and bare cheeks kissed by the sun?

It had brought him to further heights of anguish to discover that thoughts of Elizabeth intruded on his time spent in company just as well as they did in solitude. Her pert opinions and sly smiles refused to part from him whether he conceded to think on her or not. Visions of her fine eyes flatly refused to abate no matter the inducement. Riding, fencing, conversation, rather too much port—none of it forestalled the cascade of Elizabeth Bennet for a moment. The soft bounce to her steps as she strolled the parks at Rosings. The light melody of her laughter over the crisp morning air—a sound he found he preferred to the finest aria or concerto. The flush of desire which coursed through him each time she thoughtfully pressed her teeth into the tantalizing, delicate flesh of her bottom lip when she thought no one was looking. The way she arched a teasing brow in response to his awkward attempts at polite conversation…

How he wished to reach out to her in those moments! How he longed to crush her exquisite form to his chest, to take those irresistible, soft, supple lips in his own and draw her in his mouth, to taste her—of what did she taste? Sweet honeysuckle? Soft lavender flowers? Rich summer berries—as intoxicating as fine wine? He would drink of her to his pleasure, her soft moans of desire answering his own as he felt her fingers snake through his hair while his own traced the no-longer forbidden delights of her arched back, the light curve of her waist, the fullness of her enticing, perfectly formed, ample—

 _No! This will not do!_

With an audible groan, Darcy sprung from his seat and sought to put a physical distance between his increasingly depraved thoughts and his exhausted body. He suddenly felt as inflamed and overheated as the incessant mists touring the garden outside his window.

As he strode the length from his desk to the hearth, the hearth to the window, the window to the desk and back again, he attempted to retrace his thoughts—Oh, yes. Hadley.

The _second_ distinct impression that he had formed in the hours and days since the incident at White's was that—whoever he was—Hyatt Hadley was not a man to be trusted. Any precise _reasons_ for such fixed suspicions continued to evade him, vanishing from his mind almost as they began to take shape, as though determined to remain just out of reach. Still, there was something about the man—something familiar that he could not place…

Darcy thought back to the night at White's in a half-hearted effort to try again.

After the debacle in the courtyard, the small party had returned to their previous table—the only visible change in their company being the addition of a third partner. Hadley had been cordial, gregarious even, but Darcy could not help but notice that the gentleman's good cheer never seemed to extend to his eyes. As a consequence of his lingering bad-humour—and perhaps owing to his general discomfort in the company of strangers—Darcy had left the bulk of the conversation to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

His cousin—seeming happy to oblige in the service of distraction if not genuine feeling—had engaged Hadley in a lengthy and lively discussion concerning the orchards, walks, streams, and fields between his childhood home, Milton, and Mr. Hadley's estate, Foxhollow Hall. Though the name was unfamiliar to Darcy, Richard seemed to have a clear enough recollection of the place Mr. Hadley had once called home. However, any further consideration that might have been given to the gentleman's family name or home was quickly thrown aside in favour of Colonel Fitzwilliam's favoured quarry—any and all information regarding the wealth, women, and wine which Mr. Hadley had occasion to sample during his many years spent in India.

 _India?_

Darcy had not been entirely sure how the conversation had shifted from the property lines of Milton and Foxhollow to the mystical secrets of the Orient, though he had found himself struggling to pay attention in either case. It was no matter—Richard's attention was certainly rapt enough for both of them. And so, Darcy had amused himself by studying the chilled glass of wine in his hand and imagining the feel of Elizabeth's cool skin against his own.

Unfortunately, the conversation had turned to Darcy just as his thoughts had taken an unwelcome turn. Could she believe Wickham? Trust Wickham? _Love_ Wickham? Would they sit together in some drab parlour room in Nowhereshire, England—heads bent together, lips curling in shared laughter as they regaled one another with tales of Darcy's feeble attempts at conversation and courtship? The blackguard! He would not dare! If George Wickham so much as—

"Darcy?"

He had started at the sound of his cousin's voice as it tugged him from the depths of his most recent undesired revelries and made every attempt at a smile. If the looks on the gentlemen's faces were any indication—his efforts had been unsuccessful.

"My apologies, gentlemen. I am poor company tonight."

Richard had waived this pronouncement away with a flash of his hand and shook his head with a laugh, but Mr. Hadley's silent gaze continued to bore into him. Again, Darcy had felt a confusing pang of near-recollection. What was it about this man?

"Mr. Hadley has mentioned an acquaintance with your mother," Fitzwilliam grinned.

Darcy shifted in his seat.

"Is that so?"

Hadley raised a brow.

"Yes, though I knew her when she still bore the name Fitzwilliam." The gentleman had leaned back in his seat then, taking his eyes from Darcy for what felt like the first time since joining the table. "And only a little after, very briefly."

Darcy had cleared his throat, attempting an air of indifference great enough to quell the tumult of raw emotions which churned within. _His mother_. The only person, save Elizabeth— _Miss Bennet_ —who could raise in him such a storm of sharp agonies.

The two men regarded one another with all the calculating precision of enemy generals approaching the field. Richard, however—for all his military training—had clearly missed the call to arms.

"How about that, Darce! Small world, would you not say?"

Darcy had been so startled by his cousin's interruption that he nearly missed the spark in Hadley's eye as he acknowledged the Colonel's words. With a tight smile, he had raised his glass in a toast.

"And getting smaller every day."

Thankfully, the evening had drawn to a close soon after—though not uneventfully. As the gentlemen had gathered their coats and hats, the Colonel found himself distracted by some Lieutenant General or other, as he so often was when in town. Guffaws were shared, hands were shaken, the weather was criticized, and Darcy's thoughts had turned to Elizabeth Bennet once more. He had not noticed Mr. Hadley's approach until the gentleman spoke.

"I should like to pay you a call before I leave town, Mr. Darcy. It seems we have some business to discuss."

"Do we?" Darcy had replied with some surprise, recalling his earlier thoughts of clandestine tradesmen and their unsavoury machinations. "Is this business of ours a personal or a professional matter, Mr. Hadley?"

Once again, Darcy did not fail to miss the spark.

"I would say it is something of both, Mr. Darcy."

If either gentleman had felt a sudden chill pass through the air at that moment, they did not show it.

"Should that be the case I will expect your call on Friday, Mr. Hadley," Darcy had announced. "If that would be convenient."

"I will look forward to it, Mr. Darcy. I assure you."

Darcy had never been so glad to leave his club in his life.

Though he had not heard from Mr. Hadley since, Darcy had attended a small dinner presided over by Fitzwilliam's mother, the Countess of Matlock, only the night before. It had not been his intention to spend the few words he reserved for social occasions asking after any acquaintance with a Mr. Hadley of Foxhollow Hall, but so it was.

He had found nothing with overly surprised him, which, given Darcy's ill-ease in the gentleman's company, was in itself rather surprising. Those who were familiar with Hadley's name appeared to know him more by reputation than acquaintance—hardly extraordinary given that he had spent the majority of his years building a fortune on the markets and docks of India. There was some mention of an elder brother, now long dead, though scant details were available. And, of course, everything else that Darcy already knew—an estate in Northamptonshire, replete with imported orchards and the standard corn crops of wheat and barley, a smattering of other investments Mr. Hadley had mentioned himself.

It was of all of little consequence and even less illuminating. Mr. Hadley's reputation as a popular, impressive wit intrigued Darcy far more than his crops. Though the gentleman had returned from India with the bulk of his fortune less than a year ago, there were few among the party who had not heard something of his exceptional wealth, quick tongue, and captivating tales of the Orient. He was unmarried, a fact which—in combination with his fortune and assumed ties to both imported silks _and_ fine teas—likely had something to do with his sudden popularity amongst the higher circles of town. But the point Darcy found most irritating had as little to do with his silks as his oats. Not a single, solitary person could remember making the acquaintance of Hyatt Hadley before his return to England, despite the generous proclamations made by some of the more competitive matrons as they crowed over one another from where they held court to the side of the room. To Darcy, each profession of longstanding familiarity sounded more unlikely than the last.

Mr. Hadley was a puzzle—or rather, Mr. Hadley puzzled him. It was a rare occurrence in itself, let alone at a time when he had puzzles enough to fill his every waking moment. Yes, Darcy was not necessarily disposed to like strangers, but he was not typically disposed to _dislike_ them either… Yet for some, unfathomable reason, he had to admit that he _did_ dislike the gentleman. In fact, he disliked him very much.

He could not help but think—not for the first time—that he was missing _something_ with regards to the gentleman. And that, perhaps if it had not been for the lingering presence of a certain Miss Bennet in his every thought, he might had divined it himself by now. But, it was not to be—and hardly necessary in any case. If there was some great mystery surrounding Hyatt Hadley, Darcy would find out soon enough.

After all, it was Friday.

A knock at the door brought Darcy back to the present. As he called for Maxwell to enter, he returned to his seat behind the great oak desk that had belonged to his father.

 **xxx**

"I have waited a very long time for this day, Mr. Darcy. I must thank you for accommodating me with such short notice."

"Not at all, Mr. Hadley. But you say you have had some business with me for some time? You will forgive me but, as you say, we have only just met."

"Yes."

Though Hyatt Hadley had not been in Darcy's study for more than five minutes, Darcy was already beginning to suspect that their entire meeting at White's must have been contrived for the gentleman's benefit.

Their first attempts at polite conversation had gone well enough, but one could hardly call them gripping. They had discussed the weather, of course, and Darcy was almost pleased to find that Mr. Hadley seemed to hold as little interest in the topic as himself. This momentary confederacy was soon thrown asunder when it occurred to Darcy that they must have some form of conversation—and given his uneasiness towards the man, he suddenly preferred the tedious speculation surrounding the fog outside his doors rather than within them.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hadley was not at a similar loss for topics of conversation.

"Were you very close to your father, Mr. Darcy?"

The question stunned Darcy so much so that he momentarily lost his equilibrium and Mr. Hadley was forced to repeat himself. Who was this man to be asking such a question? They were hardly acquainted after all, and he had no desire to discuss his father—worse, his _feelings_ for his father, with some strange travelling gentleman-merchant who had shown up on his doorstep with barely an introduction and refused his frequent entreaties to move the conversation towards the undoubtedly more appropriate conversation topics of the weather, the war, or wheat.

"As close as any father to his son, I imagine," Darcy lied.

"Yes, I have heard that you were brought up in his very image," Mr. Hadley observed. For a moment, Darcy almost thought the look on his face expressed some distaste—but it was fleeting. Soon enough, his countenance was as clear and devoid of feeling as his own.

Darcy opened his mouth to reply—he was not sure with _what_ precisely, but he was stopped by a sudden and hasty stream of conversation from the man reclining with such infernal ease across from him.

"As I was acquainted with him for a time, of course I have been impressed with some similarities in character since meeting you myself. I suppose it is not surprising, and yet—I had thought—well, I suppose it is no matter…" Mr. Hadley's voice trailed off. Although this statement was delivered with all the airy ease of the gentleman's earlier comments on the weather, Darcy could not fail to miss that _this_ was not some similarly casual observation meant to encourage idle parlour talk.

"Am I to understand that your visit here today has something to do with my father? How well acquainted with him were you, Mr. Hadley?" Darcy asked.

Mr. Hadley seemed to straighten in his chair. "Well enough."

Darcy considered his response for a moment before replying. He did not like the direction this conversation was tending, and yet, in his exhaustion, he could not find a way past it. He would have to charge ahead, full steam. He pressed his fingertips together before him and leaned back in his chair in an effort to match the gentleman's relaxed posture.

"Then you must know I take your compliment to heart. My father was an excellent man. I have yet to meet his equal in honour or pride." In this, at least, Darcy felt he had told the truth.

Hadley let forth a slight chuckle before leaning forward and loosening the hold on the countenance that had heretofore blinded Darcy to his feelings. He watched with interest as Hadley's features slid into a show of pure repulsion.

"And do _you_ call yourself an honourable man? Are _you_ a proud man, Mr. Darcy?"

Unbidden, memories of Elizabeth rose to the forefront of Darcy's mind. A painful recollection of their exchange in the parlour of Netherfield was unavoidable and his own words returned to haunt him.

' _Pride_ — _where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.'_

What a fool he had been!

He shook his head in a vague effort to return from his thoughts and attend to his present conversation.

"I do my best to act as honour dictates, sir," he offered steadily, still wondering at Hadley's purpose. "As I am sure you do."

"I am glad to hear that, Mr. Darcy." Mr. Hadley was all but sneering now.

"May I ask to what these questions tend?" Darcy replied in a voice suddenly as tight as the set of his shoulders. He was in no mood to be trifled with, and he would not be trifled with any longer.

In response, Mr. Hadley stood from his seat and pulled a thick packet of folded papers from the inner pocket of his coat. He leafed casually through the parchment and almost seemed to forget Darcy's presence as he made a final examination of their contents. Darcy could only watch—frozen in a state of rigid anticipation inspired by equal parts eagerness and dread.

Finally, Hadley seemed to find what he had been searching for. With a raise of his brow, his cold gaze matched Darcy's in a trice.

"What say you, Mr. Darcy? Does an honourable gentlemen pay his debts?"

Darcy shrugged, aware that he could do nothing but follow where Hadley led. Whatever this man had come to do, now was the time to do it. Soon enough, Darcy would be rid of him.

"Of course. It would be impossible for any gentleman deserving of the name to deny a debt."

"Well then," Hadley started—and with a flourish of his wrist, the papers he had been holding in his hand skated across the smooth polished oak of Darcy's desk. "As we are both agreed on the proper behaviour of a gentleman, I must inform you that I have come to collect."

Darcy's brow pinched together as he picked up the closest piece of parchment to his person and held it up against the dim light from the window beside him.

A long moment passed.

And then another.

Neither gentleman moved, and neither did they speak—yet both seemed to understand that the papers on the desk had changed everything between them. Darcy would not be rid of this man any time soon. In fact, he might never be rid of him at all.

Though the paper was worn and had faded somewhat around the edges, Darcy recognized the sweeping signature at the bottom immediately. He did not have to wonder long at the document's significance. It was the work of a moment to recognize what lay scattered before him on his father's desk.

The implication took somewhat longer to set in, but Mr. Hadley was glad to assist.

"I trust you recognize your father's marker?"

Darcy cleared his throat, not trusting his voice to say what must be said.

"Yes."

"They are vowels, of course," Mr. Hadley confirmed. He pulled another piece of paper from the stack which remained in his hand, but Darcy hardly noticed as his eyes remained trained on the documents scattered before him—each denoting a more incredible sum than the last. The documents which bore his father's signature. The documents he never would have believed possible. The documents which would likely ruin him—and in doing so—destroy the Darcy name forever.

Hadley straightened his coat and peered down at the younger man evidently reeling before him. Darcy was not sure what the gentleman had been expecting him to feel at this moment, but at the moment he felt nothing. What should he feel? What should one be feeling at a moment such as this?

 _Let him delight in his victory elsewhere_ , Darcy told himself. He did not know what score Mr. Hadley had come to settle with his father today, but he would not give him the added satisfaction of seeing his George Darcy's son brought any lower. He was a gentleman. He would behave as such.

"So I see. And you say that these wagers were made by my father?"

"I have had them authenticated, of course, but I have included a letter for your solicitors should you wish to have the process repeated."

"And where was he to have made such wagers?"

"You will notice the text about the bottom. The seal and corresponding signature comes from Bombay."

"India?" Darcy asked, the slight rise of his voice indicating the first evidence of his shock.

"Yes," Hadley replied in a low tone. "I believe you must remember your father's trip to the Indes in the summer of—"

"Yes, I remember," Darcy interrupted. He had no need to relive _those_ memories in the presence of Mr. Hadley or his pile of betrayal.

"Of course," Hadley prompted. "I believe it was just after your mother's death."

Though his eyes did not leave the papers before him, Darcy felt Hadley's needling gaze resting upon him as he waited for some outward sign of his inevitable rage. He could hear the hint of innuendo in the man's voice as he pressed his suit, but Darcy would not be provoked into an argument. Not by this man. Not to defend these documents—the irrefutable evidence of his own father's deceit. A feeling somewhere beyond anger began to boil within him as yet another document was slid before him.

"I have enclosed a translation, of course."

Darcy tightened his grip on the edge of his chair as he finally raised his eyes to meet the storming grey glare of Hyatt Hadley. He was no longer surprised by the malice he found there, though he was no closer to understanding it.

 _This_ , Darcy thought to himself, _is not the work of a moment_.

However, he lacked the time or energy to follow this thought any further, as Colonel Fitzwilliam—ever the expert on abominable timing—suddenly burst through the doors to Darcy's study.

The Colonel cast a wide grin upon the room, belying his ever-pleasant disposition and—Darcy bitterly lamented—once again displaying a characteristic unawareness of the dire circumstances surrounding them.

 _How did this man make it through The Battle of Maida?_

As the Colonel made his grand entrance, Mr. Hadley gathered the small pile of parchment from Darcy's desk and replaced it with a smooth, rounded calling card.

"I will take my leave now, Mr. Darcy. The card contains the information you will need to contact the appropriate parties." Hadley turned to bow to the Colonel as he made his way to the door. Darcy stood—his only response a menacing glower which cast a gloom over the room that not even the colonel could ignore.

Mr. Hadley opened the door himself, seemingly already at home in his surroundings. Darcy scowled.

"I will contact you within a sennight to discuss the details of our transaction, Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam, I bid you good day."

And with that, the gentleman turned and was gone from the room, gone from the house, gone from the neighborhood—but he remained firmly lodged in Darcy's tumultuous, disordered, _violent_ thoughts—the sole living recipient of his burgeoning anger, though certainly not its principal object.

It was some moments before Darcy realized that Richard had moved to stand by his side, his hand gripping his shoulder.

"What has happened, Darce?" The Colonel urged in a low voice. "What brought Hadley here today?"

Richard Fitzwilliam nearly lost his own footing when Darcy turned to face him—revealing a countenance so grim and pale that it shook him to his very core.

"I hardly know why he has come, Richard," Darcy breathed in a voice so quiet he nearly failed to hear himself. "Though I suppose it would not matter if I did. The result remains regardless. It is lost. It is all lost."

"What is lost?" The Colonel demanded. "Cousin, you are speaking in riddles."

Darcy sank back into his chair and placed a hand over his eyes, his fingers rubbing the space which had begun to ache between his brow. He did not expect it would be remedied soon. He barely wished for it—at least the pain ensured him that what had come to pass was no dream. He would not wake from this nightmare. He could not wish Hyatt Hadley away. He could no longer imagine a future with… No, he could no longer imagine a future.

"Then let me be clear, Richard," Darcy rumbled back, his voice quaking. " _Everything_ is lost."

The Colonel pulled a bottle of port from the sideboard and joined Darcy at his desk. He poured them both a glass as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Though he remained perplexed by Hadley's visit and his cousin's visible distress, his characteristic blend of good humour and loyalty was not formed to expect adversity—only to face it when necessary. He handed his cousin a glass, took a deep drink from his own, and charged forward.

"Everything? Come Darcy, surely you cannot mean—"

"Yes, everything," Darcy whispered as he looked up to meet his cousin's now thoroughly bewildered mein. He took a deep breath, as if to steel himself for the next words he knew must fall from his lips—must make it all real to more than just himself. He did not wish to say it. He could not bear to say it. But say it he must. And so, he did.

"Everything," he repeated solemnly. "The Darcy name, the Darcy fortune, the Darcy… Pemberley, Richard."

The Colonel was aghast—as any sensible man would be. "It's not possible, Darcy! How can you even think such a thing?! Surely there must be—"

Fitzwilliam Darcy—son of George Darcy, master of Pemberley of Derbyshire, the great-nephew of a Duke, the grandson of an Earl, and the direct descent of enough French nobility to keep any Darcy from an English title for at least three more generations—raised a still hand to quiet his cousin.

"Pemberley is lost."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for all who are still reading and commenting despite ODB's foul mood _–_ and especially to Deanna27! Your enthusiasm is contagious and I'm posting this chapter early for you because I couldn't bear to make you wait. If you can all stay with me for a few more chapters, I hope you'll like what's around the bend.

Spoiler: Darcy _does_ eventually give us a smile.

As a quick note, you will find that there is indeed a slight jump in time between the previous chapter and this one. We leave Darcy in his library late April, and we catch up with Elizabeth in July. I did my best to make this clear, but I thought I might as well preempt any time-related questions with an easy notification.

Enough with all that! On to _–_

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

 _"Flours of all hue, and without thorn the rose."  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV –_

 **Wednesday 8 July, 1812  
** **Derbyshire**

"What do you say, Lizzy? Shall we visit Pemberley on the morrow?"

"Pemberley!"

Until this brief exchange, the handsome young woman seated nearest the window had been, at best, half-attending to the stunning displays presented by the verdant greens, sloping hills, and cheerful town squares of Derbyshire as they passed through the window of her uncle's carriage. Her attention did them no credit. Her eyes, which had sometimes been called fine, often glazed over as she stared absentmindedly out the fine panes of glass, or worse, clouded entirely as the lines of her brow drew together in a picture of deep contemplation.

Her aunt, finding her increasingly distracted, had sought to return her niece to her generally bright disposition. She could not understand the sudden change in her favourite's behaviour—nor why it seemed to worsen as the trip moved towards her childhood home of Lambton. She had assumed, quite incorrectly, that the young lady must still be distraught over the party's missed opportunity to view the Lakes this summer. Now, to her great satisfaction, Margery Gardiner found that she had a Trump card to play. If the rolling hills of the Derbyshire countryside could not hold her companion's interest, she was sure to be charmed by Pemberley!

Mrs. Gardiner regarded the ensuing conversation with a merry smile. It seemed she was right! At the mere mention of Pemberley, her young niece had jerked suddenly, swiftly to full attention.

"We are to be settled near Pemberley?" Elizabeth delivered _en staccato_.

Her aunt nodded vigorously, practically beaming with joy. Her uncle, ever practical in his communications—whether for business or pleasure—took up the work of answering.

"Yes, my dear. Pemberley is not but ten or perhaps fifteen miles from here. When we stop at Lambton, I believe we will be less than five miles from the grounds. Is that right, dearest?"

Aunt Gardiner offered another happy nod, quite pleased with her ability to garner her niece's undivided attention for what was seemingly the first time in weeks. After the onset of the horrible fog in London some weeks back, her husband had thought they might have to cancel their trip all-together as it had interfered with his planned trip to visit the northern mills. However—as he was undoubtedly as efficient as he was kind—her husband had suggested a slight change to their plans instead of an outright cancellation. They would remove from Longbourn with their niece in early July, tour the sights of some of the northern country, and stop for a brief respite at his wife's girlhood home in Lambton. He would carry on further north to conduct his business with the mill owners and return to to collect the ladies from their lodgings a fortnight later. It had been the perfect plan! Margery would be able to visit with her friends and relatives and introduce her niece to the neighbourhood, and her dear husband would be able to attend to his responsibilities as well as his relaxation. It was only Lizzy's feelings on the subject that they had worried over. But now it seemed she would enjoy their trip after all! Why, she really looked quite flushed at the idea!

Unfortunately for her well-meaning relations, Elizabeth's thoughts had taken quite a different turn. _Five miles from Pemberley?_ How was such a thing to be managed! It was impossible. _Quite impossible!_ The most impossible circumstance, indeed. And there was no way, absolutely no way at all, that she would ever, _ever_ consent to place so much as a toe atop a single, solitary blade of grass belonging to Mr. Da— _that gentleman_.

After an entire month together of affording him all too much attention in her thoughts, she had— quite decidedly—determined to think of _that gentleman_ no longer. She had considered his every gesture, every turn of his countenance, his every word _ad nauseam_ —both those he had spoken to her person and those he had written to her when she would not hear him speak. Oh, to have driven a man to such behaviour, all to defend himself against her vulgar words! She was heartily ashamed of herself now, and over the course of the same month she had collected more than enough reasons to be.

In order to faithfully examine any revelations relating to _a certain gentleman from Derbyshire_ and his confounding character, it had been necessary—imperative even—that she likewise examine her own opinions, actions, and behaviour in the months between their initial meeting and his… parting words. To put it plainly, she had not liked what she found. She had expected to disapprove of _him_ , of course, but she failed to consider that such careful introspection would reveal her own failings.

To her great agitation, her opinion of Mr. Darcy had improved quite steadily in the months since her ill-fated visit to Rosings Park—though she supposed her estimation of his character had not begun from lofty heights to begin with and therefore had an easier distance to travel. In sharp contrast, she had completed the sketch of her own character to find that she did not like at all what she found. She was embarrassed by her very nature. How could she have neglected to check her wounded vanity, attend to such willful misunderstandings, or acknowledge _her own_ abominable pride! The entire process made her positively ill—and with no antidote in sight, for it was all but assured that she would never so much as glimpse the shadow of _that gentleman_ again. And so, she resolved to put him from her mind entirely. She would not regret him. Instead, she would focus the whole of her energies on becoming the amiable, discerning, and compassionate woman she had already imagined herself to be. As was necessary, _he_ was quite banished from her thoughts.

Except, of course, when he wasn't.

And now, here she was _not five miles_ from Pemberley—and for a full fortnight! How was she to keep her countenance? How was she to clear her mind of him when she was practically at his door? How was she even to breathe?!

Elizabeth Bennet wanted to scream, but she was the daughter of a gentleman. And so, she gathered what remained of her composure and said only, "so close?"

Aunt Gardiner was glowing.

"Yes! I have so many fond memories of the grounds surrounding the great house." She nodded to her husband now, but kept her eyes fixed on her niece. "I should love to see them before your uncle makes his way north."

Aunt Gardiner's gaze drifted as she took a sudden wistful turn. "My youngest sister, little Minny, and I would often lose ourselves on a good country ramble in our day, and the quiet groves at Pemberley remain without equal in my heart. Truly, the grounds are delightful. And they have some of the finest woods in the country!"

She smiled thoughtfully to herself, as a kaleidoscope of unshared memories played before her. Her little Minny, running in the sun, skirts gathered around her knees. Minny, her face stained with berries, hands full of leaves. Minny, weaving them brightly coloured crowns of flowers with her short, pudgy fingers.

Elizabeth watched as her aunt drifted further away. To lose her dearest sister, well, she could not imagine. Of course her aunt would want to see the groves which held such happy memories. Perhaps they could keep to the edges of the property? Surely they had no need to approach the house. She doubted very much that her aunt should have any memories at all which came within even a mile of Pemberley itself. And if she _were_ to see him— _no._ It was impossible. Exceedingly so. She turned to her aunt and braved a smile.

"Nothing would make me happier than to retrace your favorite walks by your side, dear Aunt, but I should hate to intrude on the family's privacy. Surely they are at home for the summer."

"If you would feel better, niece," answered her Uncle Gardiner, "we should not apply to see the house if they are understood to be at home. We may inquire at the inn."

It was enough for Margery Gardiner. Elizabeth glimpsed tears in her aunt's eyes as she clasped her hands on the bench between them.

"I believe you shall like it very well, Lizzy. I am sure you will never want to leave once you have set your eyes on Pemberley."

Elizabeth, suddenly at a loss for words, could only nod.

 **xxx**

The few remaining miles to Lambton had dragged on such that Elizabeth felt half a lifetime had passed by the time they arrived at the small inn. After a light dinner and even less conversation, she made her excuses to her aunt and uncle and retired to her room.

It was with great surprise that she opened her door nearly an hour later to reveal the slender form of her aunt. Though Mrs. Gardiner had already dressed for bed, her flaxen hair remained arranged in delicate tangle of pins.

"I explained to your uncle that I would need your help with this," her aunt explained, indicating the intricate nest of curls which adorned her brow. "May I come in?"

Elizabeth stepped aside, and soon the reason behind such subterfuge became clear. Margery Gardiner believed she was expecting—which was not necessarily a subject to demand such privacy on its own accord, as she had been with child a number of times previously and would likely be so again. However, she had a particular purpose in revealing this information to Elizabeth as the young woman readied herself for bed. It seemed her aunt had a question to ask.

"I admit that I have grown quite used to Jane's company in town," she explained, adding that she had particularly looked forward to the company and assistance of another lady while she was increasing. It was well-known that Aunt Gardiner had an unfortunately delicate disposition when it came to childbearing. She was often too ill to leave the house or accept callers, even in the months before her confinement.

"I had thought to invite Jane to stay at Gracechurch Street," her aunt announced, running a coarse brush through Elizabeth's stubborn hair. "But your mother believes your sister may be very soon engaged."

Aunt Gardiner, who had heard similar proclamations from her sister-in-law on any number of occasions before—and was certainly no fool—directed a questioning glance to her second-eldest niece. Elizabeth could only laugh at the picture her aunt presented. They both knew her mother too well to believe Jane engaged on Mrs. Bennet's word alone!

"It is true that Mr. Bingley has renewed his attentions to Jane, aunt," Elizabeth relented. "Though I cannot say that I have been informed of any particular understanding between the two since his return to Netherfield. He has only been back in our part of the country since May, after all. It would be a shame if the whole of society proclaimed a man engaged every time he returned to chase a few ducks!"

"I hardly believe Mr. Bingley to be the only resident of Hertfordshire partaking of a good hunt this season, Lizzy," her aunt replied with a knowing wink.

"Aye!" Elizabeth agreed, "let us hope for Jane's sake that Mama has better luck than the birds!"

In truth, Elizabeth believed that Mr. Bingley remained in just as much danger of falling in love with Jane as ever—if he was not already. Although the gentleman had only returned to Hertfordshire some weeks earlier, he had called at Longbourn often. And though he was unable to return the invitation, as Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had—blessedly—not accompanied him on this trip, Mr. Bennet had accepted no fewer than three shooting parties at the neighboring estate in as many weeks. Jane remained cautious, as was her wont, but it seemed as though their mother might finally have the right of it. If Jane were not engaged to Mr. Bingley by the end of the summer, Elizabeth would be well surprised indeed.

"And if Jane were to be married," her aunt urged, "perhaps _you_ might wish accompany us to Gracechurch Street, Lizzy? I believe there are enough delights in town to please even the most circumspect young ladies."

"And those fond of long walks?" Elizabeth teased.

But Aunt Gardiner would not be gainsaid, and she tapped her niece's bottom with the brush as she leaned over the small basin as if to emphasize her point. "Even the most prodigious walkers have met their match in Hyde Park, my dear. I believe the path following the Serpentine is some miles around."

Elizabeth grinned under her face cloth. "And those fond of reading?"

"Are certain to find their match amongst the booksellers!" Aunt Gardiner exclaimed. "Not to mention the many plays, exhibitions, and classic operas. Yes, I believe any lady given to such pursuits would find much to admire in town. Not least of all, of course, the society."

"The society, aunt?" Elizabeth inquired with an arch of her brow.

"Why, yes! Your uncle is well known in town. I believe he has made the acquaintance of a great number of eligible gentlemen, for instance. Perhaps I might inquire if any of them have an interest in long walks to the booksellers?"

Though Elizabeth made light of her aunt's offer—especially with regards to the mention of any single gentlemen—she silently considered her options. If Jane did marry Mr. Bingley, as Elizabeth was now near certain she would, life at Longbourn would lose much of its appeal. True, she still had her father, mother, and younger sisters to keep her company, but she would feel Jane's absence painfully. Though the sisters had often laughed at the idea of Elizabeth filling the role of a talentless spinster aunt, she was not quite so resigned to her fate as to take on the position at the age of twenty!

Should Mr. Bingley and Jane's continued, rather leisurely courtship, come to marriage, she would have to allow Jane the space to take on a new life. Elizabeth had no desire to always be in the way, lurking about Netherfield and distracting Jane from her duties and her husband like some overbearing—well, Caroline Bingley. Furthermore, if Jane were to marry Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth might then be thrown into the company of another _certain gentleman_ she preferred not to think of at present. Even if they did happen to cross paths again, Elizabeth had no desire to repeat the extreme mortification such a meeting would undoubtedly cause any more than was absolutely necessary.

"What say you then, Lizzy?" Aunt Gardiner winked again. "Shall I tell your uncle to fill his stores of port to entertain your many suitors?"

Elizabeth chewed her lip.

Though the lady recognized Elizabeth's hesitation, she believed her niece to be shy, rather than disinterested, when it came to gentlemen. This facet of her niece's character had surprised her, and although she was not as ambitious as her sister Bennet might have been, she would do her best to impress upon Lizzy that she might very well come to _like_ someone she met while enjoying the manifold delights of town. Still, she acknowledged that there was nothing else to be done for it this evening.

"Promise me you will consider my offer?"

"Of course, Aunt," Elizabeth agreed. "Good night."

"Sleep well, Lizzy," Aunt Gardiner whispered as she moved to close the door behind her. "And do dream of meeting a well-mannered gentleman scholar in Hyde Park who dearly loves to dance, if you're able."

Elizabeth laughed—but as she settled into her own bed, her attentions tended in a much different direction than the sort of man her aunt would have her conjure up. Truth be told, she already had thoughts enough of a particular, tall, serious, and entirely too haughty gentleman—who appeared rather set against dancing—to vex her exceedingly well. And so, nothing else could convince her to invite more trouble to company.

"The last man in the world I could ever marry," she mumbled to herself as she snuffed out her candle. "Mercy be for the next man foolish enough to offer for me!"


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

 **Thursday 9 July, 1812  
** ** _Pemberley_**

In the end, the Gardiners had the right of it.

It was soon discovered from a maid familiar with Pemberley that the family was indeed from home and not expected to return to that part of the country for some time. And so it was that later that same morning two Gardiners and a Bennet climbed into their simple town carriage and made their way down the wide lane towards Pemberley.

"We shall see Pemberley after all," Aunt Gardiner supplied with a squeeze of her niece's hand. "Are you not pleased?"

Elizabeth pronounced her agreement to the question she had not heard and straightened uncomfortably in her seat. Though she had returned to her room and checked twice before leaving the inn, she still felt her laces fit far too tight. She could hardly breathe! And was she really here, riding down the lane _to his house_? She could scarce believe she was within such an _easy distance_ of the place, let alone near enough to walk on foot.

She stared out the window as the wood rolled by with such a studious expression that the rest of her party might have thought she intended to memorize each leaf. Aunt Gardiner was overjoyed, Uncle Gardiner was glad of any opportunity to delight his wife, and Elizabeth carried on being miserable.

Elizabeth was not, after all, examining the beauty of the leaves. Rather, she found she had a captive interest in trying to ascertain what lay beyond them. Was that shadow just beyond the tree-line the remains of an old rock wall, or the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man on horseback? Was something moving— _there!_ —just beyond the curve of the road? Had anyone else heard that sound? She began to see him everywhere, the man she would not think of. He was behind every limb, under every stone, and at the end of every mile.

The direction of the road may have been for Pemberley, but Elizabeth could not help but feel that it carried her only to Mr. Darcy.

 _Impossible man!_

If only she had some way to reply to that horrible letter! Not for the first time, Elizabeth cursed the rules of society. He had written to her with such… well, he had written to her, she did not care to remember _what_ he had written at just this moment. His writing to her at all was improper in itself, but she could hardly tear the fabric of propriety any further than she— _they_ —already had done.

Still, she had considered her reply, were she to ever chance putting such a thing to paper—which she certainly would not—innumerable times in the months since receiving his… communication.

The drafts she penned in her head were rarely of similar mind or character. She alternated between some degree of throwing herself unto his mercy and begging forgiveness for impugning his character in such a way, or offering several additional, scathing reproaches for his abominable behaviour that she had not considered before. After all, _if_ he were such a man as he so fervently claimed, why had he not deigned to supply any appearance of it! It was hardly her fault everyone found him so disagreeable! _He_ had called her tolerable in a crowded assembly room where he must have known that every ear was straining to capture his every word. _He_ had constantly looked down upon and denied the kindness of his friend's neighbors. _He_ had made every effort to indicate that he preferred the company of windowpanes and bookshelves to her own. _He_ had insulted everything from her connections to her person. And yet, oh! What he must think of her now!

It was not that she regretted refusing him, of course. Nothing could be further from the truth! Although it _was true_ that certain black marks on his character—those which had stemmed from his, now quite understandable, ill-behaviour toward Wickham and his, still quite aggravating but rectified nonetheless, interference between Jane and Mr. Bingley—had been, for the most part, scrubbed clean, she remained convinced of their mutual unsuitability.

Well, perhaps he was not quite the _last_ man she could ever be prevailed upon to marry now, but the—how had he so eloquently put it? Oh, yes—his _honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented his forming any serious design_ on her _,_ or—as she had preferred to call them—his _insulting and hurtful accusations against her family, her home, and her character_ , were still his _honest confessions_ , were they not?

As the hours, days, and finally weeks, brought her further from the scene at Hunsford, she could not help but reflecting on the somewhat, well, _right_ of them. Though she was a gentleman's daughter, she could hardly disagree with his assertion that they inhabited vastly different social circles. She would never have considered herself his equal in terms of wealth, connections, or status. Her father's modest estate was entailed, after all, and she—along with everyone else in Meryton—was well aware of the fact that aside from her meagre portion of her mother's dowry, she had little but her charms to recommend her. Charming though she was, she did not flatter herself that either her active constitution or agreeable conversation were enough to tip the scales of society in her favour. After all, despite all the enticements presented by her elder sister's renowned beauty, kindness, and serenity—Jane was yet unmarried at the age of nearly three and twenty. Since she had first come out at the age of fifteen, Elizabeth had often wondered how she was ever to find a proper husband if Jane could not. And to think she had now suffered two proposals and Jane none! What a mess she had made of things! She, who had thought herself the most sensible Bennet of all!

But perhaps—as Mr. Darcy had claimed—there were no sensible Bennets. Yes, Elizabeth was well aware of the veracity of the gentleman's statements on that score. Though he had touched only briefly upon the want of propriety so regularly and readily displayed by her mother, her younger sisters, and even her beloved father, she had already been well aware of his sentiments in this regard since his first coming to Hertfordshire. In fact, she supposed she should be grateful he had not said more! Elizabeth loved her family, but it did not follow that she always thought well of them. She allowed him a slight victory on this point, as she regularly kept score in her head when she thought back to the events at Hunsford. Once again, the clipped tones of his parting words echoed between her ears. Had her pride _not_ been wounded, if he _had_ concealed his struggles, if he _had_ flattered her and disguised his misgivings—might she have overlooked _his_ offenses, after all?

She shook the thought from her head with a start. It did not bear thinking of! He had obviously _not_ concealed his disapprobation of her family, her station, her connections, or the relative poverty of her person when considered alongside his own masterful wealth and consequence. Certainly, he was a man of the world, but he _was also_ arrogant, and prideful, and yes—disdainful of the feelings of others. Was he not?

It did not matter. It could not. It was impossible.

"Lizzy?"

Elizabeth turned her eyes from her fervent examination of the foliage and met the questioning glance of her Aunt Gardiner with a jolt.

"Yes, aunt?"

"Oh! My apologies, dear. You seemed to be speaking, and I could not quite hear you over the sound of the carriage."

"Speaking!" Elizabeth gasped. Had she been reflecting on the many merits and misapprehensions of Mr. Darcy _out loud_?

"Do not trouble yourself, Lizzy," her aunt said with a gentle smile. "Perhaps you may have been thinking aloud? I only interrupted to make my apologies for not attending."

"Oh."

Attending or not, Elizabeth felt the tell-tale warmth of a deep blush as it spread across her cheeks.

Aunt Gardiner responded to her flush with a cheerful laugh.

"Ah, now I see." Her aunt leaned towards her and brought her voice to a low whisper, which was near unnecessary in the loud carriage. "You know, Lizzy," she teased, "I am not entirely unaffiliated with the mumbling daydreams of young women, nor what most often fills them! I only hope that if you have settled on some dashing young gentleman, I will be among the first to know!"

"Oh, aunt!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "You are most amusing today! You know as well as I that I have seen none but you and Uncle Gardiner for the past seven days together. Surely you do not believe me so easily swayed as to form an attachment to some unknown gentleman as he passes on the roadside, however dashing his seat may be?"

"Of course not, Lizzy!" Her aunt agreed with mock surprise. "I know you to be a far deal more sensible than that. In any case, I should think you would prefer a determined walker."

Aunt Gardiner threw her favorite niece a knowing wink as she turned her own attention to the prospect outside.

"But, should you find that you have fallen for some dashing young gentleman of Derbyshire, I will request that you tell me so at once. I refuse to lose all my dear nieces to matrimony this year! What will the children say when there is no one left to visit them!"

Elizabeth shook her head, the playful smile fading from her lips as she turned her attention to her hands rather than her revelries.

"I think I can safely promise you, aunt—There is no one in Derbyshire for me."

 **xxx**

A rather long hour later, Elizabeth Bennet had the distinctly unfortunate pleasure of beholding the great house of the great man she has so greatly spurned a mere three months earlier.

"Should we apply with the housekeeper to see inside do you think?"

Elizabeth—already dazzled by the beauty of the grounds, the gardens, and the vistas—was so thoroughly overcome that she would have easily acquiesced to anything her aunt might have demanded of her in that moment. Fortunately, she wholeheartedly agreed.

Yes, she would like to see inside.

She would like to see inside very much.

Elizabeth had a sinking feeling that there was still much she did not know about Mr. Darcy. As she had already surrendered the right to ever ask, she might as well see where he kept his hats.

They soon found the housekeeper. She was a lovingly bent old woman by the name of Mrs. Reynolds. Elizabeth thought she must have been near an age to retirement, or past it entirely, but the Darcys housekeeper appeared hardy for her years and did not shirk from her responsibilities. On the contrary, Mrs. Reynolds proved herself to be the very picture of a warm, considerate, and capable guide. In just over half an hour, the silver-haired woman had shown their party the great hall, complete with a comparably grand staircase, a stately drawing room, well-adorned saloon, a variety of small and large dining rooms, and, to Elizabeth's delight, the largest, most impressive, and absolutely breathtaking room she had ever seen—Mr. Darcy's library.

As the Gardiners conversed with Mrs. Reynolds, Elizabeth broke off from the party and explored the room alone. Though he had once mentioned that his library was the work of generations, Elizabeth saw only Darcy. She could not help but imagine the gentleman here, nestled amongst his books. The room smelled of him—a rich blend of spice and leather—and she wondered if he spent as much time in the room as she might. Did he prefer this room to all others, as she now did? How would he spend his solitary hours at Pemberley? Would he choose to spend his evenings in one of these oversized chairs, near enough to the golden hearth of the central fireplace to stay warm even on the coldest evenings? Though perhaps the deep red patterned chairs were not oversized for him. Elizabeth squinted as if to make him appear before her, to fit him to the perspective of the room. Yes, he fit quite well here. Quite well, indeed.

A wisp of a smile touched her lips as she continued her examination of the room she knew without a doubt he must favour. What would he choose to read, in a room filled with so many books as this? She could not imagine he wanted for fitting material, as she so often did. Would he tuck himself in the chair on a rainy day— _just there, in the great mahogany armchair nearest the hearth_ —and peruse the pages of the classics? Would he choose to read _The Tempest_ or _Othello_ aloud to his sister? Did he prefer the poetry of Burns, Blake, or Byron? Or would his tastes run towards something more serious entirely—estate management, perhaps? She absentmindedly fingered the spines of a set of well-worn histories before turning to regard a shelf replete with what she could only assume held something of Miss Darcy's own collection. A soft chuckle escaped when it occurred to her that the fastidious Mr. Darcy must certainly peruse his own sister's reading material. She imagined him standing before such a collection—his characteristically disinterested mien twisting into a display of concern for _Belinda_ , or perhaps even colouring in response to the passions of _Udolpho_. Would he be quite thoroughly embarrassed to be caught absorbing the contents of a gothic novel? A romance? Would he impatiently flip through the worn pages of Gulliver's Travels, skipping ahead to locate his favourite parts of the story? Or would he confidently recline in the seat nearest the fire—a copy of _Tom Jones_ spread wide in his lap? Did the man have _any_ guilty pleasures? Elizabeth shook the vision from her head, chagrined to find herself fully blushing over her assumptions regarding Mr. Darcy's reading list.

There was so much she did not know but could not help but imagine.

She turned her attention to less overwhelming prospects. The room itself was almost circular in nature, and a sea of brightly coloured stained glass spun around her from the floor to the very ceiling—quite the distance when one considered that the library must have taken up two full floors. In the spaces between the artist's compositions were rows of long, thin, clear glass which allowed for the sunlight to stream through unfiltered and illuminate the very ground beneath her feet. She felt the sun's rays as they fell upon her and warmed her cheek. She had never seen a room so grand, and yet it remained most welcoming.

Everywhere there were not windows, there were books. Rows upon rows, shelves upon shelves, cases upon cases of beautiful books. Here was the work of generations. The Darcy family lineage, bound together page by honoured page. It was all here. She traced her fingertips lightly over the bindings nearest the chair she had chosen as Mr. Darcy's as Mrs. Reynolds explained some of the architecture to her uncle and aunt. The details of the room's history quite escaped her attention at the moment—as she had counted no fewer than six volumes of poetry here. If she had been dazzled before, Elizabeth was now truly transfixed.

As they left the library soon after and made their way to the upstairs gallery, Elizabeth could not help but feel a loss. Luckily, little conversation was required of her, as Mrs. Reynolds described each room they passed with great detail. Occasionally, she included some observation or other on the family. _This_ had been Old Master Darcy's favourite chair, for instance, or _that_ is where the young Miss Georgiana often sat with her morning embroidery. _Those_ screens had belonged to the late Lady Anne Darcy, bless that good lady's soul.

The house was spectacular, of course, how could it not be? Still, Elizabeth found herself particularly craving Mrs. Reynold's quiet asides. She bit her lip to keep the questions from leaping out of their own accord. _Where did Mr. Darcy write his letters? Was he often at Pemberley, or did he prefer to stay in town? Did he always ride as he surveyed the grounds, or would he prefer a long walk, on occasion?_

Pemberley, she realized, was exactly what she would have imagined—and also ever so much more than she ever expected it to be! It was elegant. It was distinguished. It was refined. And it was… warm. Pemberley was more than a fine house, it was _his._ It was him. The weight of such proportions were not lost on her.

Of all this, he had thought her to become mistress. Of course, she was no more mercenary today than she had been that afternoon in the parlour at Kent, and she would no more covet what she did not have than what she did. Still, to see Pemberley, to see all of this—she felt somehow that she understood him better now. That, perhaps if it had not been for—well, _so many things_ —she might have liked to know him even better, after all.

"Ah, yes. And this is the master himself."

The young lady returned her attentions to Mrs. Reynolds, who released a soft sigh as she regarded the fine portrait before her. Was it her imagination, or did Pemberley's practiced housekeeper just swallow back a sob?

When her aunt inquired after the young man so alarmingly well depicted on the wall before them, Elizabeth made every effort to focus on the discussion which followed. She looked up, intent on offering the painting the most polite, passing glance she could muster. She failed miserably, of course, for she found that she could not help but rest her gaze on the soft, smiling eyes of the young man so elegantly captured in oils. It was as accurate and complimentary a portrait as she had ever seen. Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, stood not two feet in front of her before what she recognized as the estate's eastern grounds. He wore a tasteful brocade waistcoat and Elizabeth had to admit that he cut quite the figure in his long coat and breeches. His posture, as always, was impeccable. He was… dazzling. Exquisite. Fascinating. The conversation of Mrs. Reynolds and the Gardiners began to drift away, their tones already rather distant and below her hearing.

There was something about the eyes that Elizabeth could not immediately place, though she knew she had seen this look before. Their expression was soft and thoughtful—though perhaps a bit melancholy? There was a sort of wistfulness in his features that she began to recognize. A slow warmth spread up her spine as she regarded the painting, culminating in a sudden tremor which struck her at the very moment she realized—for the first time—that perhaps Mr. Darcy had not been looking to disapprove of her all those months ago in Hertfordshire after all.

 _Oh, heavens no!_

Elizabeth went weak in the knees. She crossed her hands to her chest in an effort to balance herself, but her sudden affliction attracted the attention of Mrs. Reynolds.

"It is a lovely painting," Elizabeth assured the woman, hoping she did not appear half so close to swooning as she currently felt.

Fortunately, as she had touched upon Mrs. Reynold's favourite topic—Mr. Darcy—the woman was sufficiently distracted from her guest's state of lightheadedness. Her dulcet tones flowed over Elizabeth in a rush, eyes bright with admiration.

"He is truly the best of men, misses. I don't mind telling you. And so kind! Not only to his dear sister, mind you, though he is the kindest brother a young lady could wish for. No, ever since he was a child that boy has been a blessing. A blessing to his family, this fine house, and to all who cross its doors. To his tenants and servants, none could ever hope to know a better master! And when I think of that sweet boy, his cheeks sticky with jam or his dear little fingers stained purple—or laughing to high heaven when my own dear Mr. Reynolds had to chase a goat through his mother's parlour!" Though Mrs. Reynold's laughed cheerfully at what was certain to be a cherished memory, her blue eyes suddenly clouded as she faced the portrait once more. She continued in a voice which seemed meant only for herself. "To think what has become of him now! It isn't right, I say. It isn't right at all."

When Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat a moment later, Mrs. Reynolds abruptly spun around and directed a weak smile at the party. It seemed almost as if—for a moment—she had quite forgotten her company.

"Pray, forgive me! I don't mean to wax on about the master so, but he has been so very good to me, such a dear sweet boy he is, and—well, it is no matter. Let us continue to the sitting rooms and if it pleases you, we will tour the music room on the way down. This way, misses, sir."

Elizabeth was left to puzzle over the housekeeper's words in solitude as the party moved on. She was not quite sure how to advise her legs to move on their own accord just yet, and—distracted by the grandeur of Pemberley as they were—no one seemed inclined to miss her company in any case. Elizabeth crossed the hall and took a seat on the long emerald settee which lined the length of windows opposite the gallery wall. It was well situated, of course. She had expected no less from the right honourable settees of the Master of Pemberley. In an effort to gather her wits, she turned to face the grounds below, leaving the painting of the man and his phantom smile behind her.

As was her nature, she allowed the soothing prospect of fine hills, rich woods, and dappled clouds to carry her thoughts away. Her attentions particularly fell upon a small area to the right of the house—a place where neatly manicured formal gardens fell away to the soft, natural curves of the landscape. She marvelled at the effect of the northern winds on the tall grasses below, their movements reminding her of the sea in a storm. She had been to the seaside often enough to visit her father's sister—often at the behest of Mrs. Bennet, who thought the salt air as capable as any restorative—but she had never seen anything so serene as this. A lush tangle of wildflowers rose and bent and rose again, pressing their stalks against the the base of a wide hill. At the top, a small copse of trees marked the beginning of what Elizabeth assumed to be a rather extensive tour through the park. If one followed the path, it would likely take them through the thick of the wood, which lay on a small slope just before the horizon line. Elizabeth took in a breath as deep as her stays would allow—the set of her shoulders relaxing as her gaze traveled the edge of a pond, the bend of a stream, a meadow of radiant, wild blooms. As her breaths became more measured, the tension which had settled into her limbs upon entering the house rose from her with each breath. Of all places, Elizabeth Bennet had found peace at Pemberley.

So lost was she in the natural beauty of the grounds that the appearance of another person in the gallery entirely escaped her notice. Though the darkened figure approached her cautiously from behind, not a sound betrayed its movement—Not a sound, that is, until the shadow spoke.

"A lovely prospect, is it not?"


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 _"With impetuous recoil and jarring sound  
_ _Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate  
_ _Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook  
_ _Of Erebus. She opened, but to shut  
_ _Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood."  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II –_

The words echoed in her ears.

"A lovely prospect, it is not?"

Elizabeth swung around with a start, shifting the burden of her uneven weight onto a bent right arm that she used to push herself up into a standing position. It was all done in a manner which was as perfectly expeditious as it was entirely unladylike. Unfortunately, her less than graceful movements also caused her legs to become tangled in the gallery curtain. She could not have imagined a more humiliating tableau.

"Pray, forgive me!" Elizabeth cried, "I offer my sincere apologies, madam. We understood all the family were from home, or we would never have dreamed to intrude on your—"

The woman swept Elizabeth's apology away with a wave of her hand. Elizabeth, still too engaged with the curtains to attempt anything befitting the name of a curtsy, could only offer what she hoped was an apologetic smile. To her relief, the gesture was returned in kind.

"Think nothing of it, my dear," the woman said. "I have only just arrived myself. Indeed, you are not intruding any more than I."

The awkwardness of the moment somewhat dispelled by their greeting, Elizabeth freed herself from the velveteen grip of her thick, sage captor as she studied the woman before her. Whoever she was, she was certainly not Miss Darcy. The lady was much older than Elizabeth, perhaps near her mother's age. However, her smooth skin and bright eyes lent her an appearance similar to that of her Aunt Gardiner, a woman whose delicate beauty—even at six and thirty—afforded her the air of a much younger woman. The stranger was taller than her aunt, though just as slim and ivory pale. A long, slender neck rendered her overall expression rather like that of a swan; a description Elizabeth found fitting as the lady certainly held herself with as much grace.

A pair of caramel eyes danced under a thick mass of auburn tresses which had been arranged with great care. The same meticulous attention to detail was mirrored in her dress. Elizabeth fought not to stare as she regarded the delicately embroidered bodice, sleeves, and hem of the lady's sheer overdress. It was fitted with the finest lace she had ever seen—from each edge sprung fine vines of silken thread, the lines occasionally blooming into full, stunning blossoms. Underneath, she wore little more than a light silken shift, a daring style which left much of the milk white skin of her shoulders and back bare but for the elegantly embroidered sheath. Elizabeth had never seen anything like it—especially given the telling hue of the magnificent gown. It was full black.

The vision spoke again Elizabeth was embarrassed to find she had been staring after all. She had never seen a more beautiful woman—She, who lived with Jane!

"I am Mrs. Graham."

Elizabeth promptly returned the fine lady's curtsy, smoothing her skirts as she fought the colouring of her cheeks. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire."

"You are touring the house then? With a party?" Mrs. Graham inquired.

"Oh! Yes, of course," Elizabeth brightened. "Excuse me, my aunt and uncle have followed Mrs. Reynolds in the direction of the music room. I found myself a little… overcome by the heat and chose to remain in the gallery a moment longer. I offer my apologies again for surprising you so." She offered a shorter curtsy to the grand lady in a move to depart. "I should rejoin my party before they think me lost!"

"Of course, Miss Bennet," came Mrs. Graham's melodious reply. "Though do you think… Might I join you?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened at the request, but she was determined to make amends for so rudely intruding on the lady's privacy. She made her best effort to temper the surprise in her voice when she responded in the affirmative. She thought she had done rather well, especially considering that this lady must be some relation or other of Mr. Darcy—though she had heard nothing from Jane or Charlotte regarding a _death_ in the Darcy family and the lady was clearly in full mourning. But perhaps she would not hear of it. It was folly to think that she might be, being so far removed from his society and relations. Could Mrs. Graham be some distant cousin? She appeared full young to be any aunt of his, but it was certainly not unheard of. Still, they had been told the family was from home, and if this lady were standing here…

"Does the rest of the family join you, Mrs. Graham?" Elizabeth heard herself ask in a voice a bit too loud for company.

"The family? Oh, yes," Mrs. Graham paused a moment as if to reconsider her reply. "Or rather, no."

Apparently in some state of confusion herself, she made an effort to clarify.

"Not the Darcy family, I mean, but my own." Mrs. Graham glanced around the room and sighed. "I fear we shall not do the house justice while we are here as we are but a small party of four—myself and three of my children."

Elizabeth smiled at the image such a party would present in the grand rooms she had just visited. Though a finer house had never been seen, Pemberley certainly seemed in need of the liveliness only children could bring! Her response seemed to brighten Mrs. Graham's otherwise solemn mien somewhat, and the lady continued, "though, they are uncommonly small, the middle one especially so—distressingly so, if you should hear her tell it—as her younger sister seemingly became her elder sister overnight!" The two women laughed together, and Mrs. Graham completed her tale in a teasing whisper. "She suspects some mischief, of course. Still, I suppose they can hardly be counted as full guests. Perhaps I should say that we are a small party of two, or near two and a half?"

Elizabeth shrugged one shoulder with a cheerful laugh. "I should think your three half people and one full person should do the halls of Pemberley justice indeed, madam! For you have more than enough good humour to fill a party of four, and any house so large and stately as this could surely benefit from a child's laughter—or their grievances, as it were!"

"Yes, it is rather grand, is it not?" Mrs. Graham contemplated. "I confess that when I emerged from my carriage this morning I worried for a moment that it would swallow me up entirely. I would hate to disappear down some long hall never to be seen again."

Elizabeth, refreshed from her momentary reprieve at the window, felt a light-heartedness to their conversation which had not touched her for some time. Had she truly been so distressed? "Fear not, madam," she replied. "I have been through any number of exceedingly long halls today. Not to mention the sea of dining, sitting, and standing rooms. As you see, I have yet to disappear. In fact, I feel quite remarkably present at the moment."

Mrs. Graham only chuckled in reply, the merry sound echoing off the long hall before them as they followed in the presumed direction of Mrs. Reynolds. "Ah, yes! You would say that to reassure me," she teased. "Though perhaps I should remind you that I found you quite separated from your party and in very near danger of being consumed by the drapes!"

The two ladies continued to laugh and talk together as they walked along the grand halls of Pemberley. For her part, Elizabeth could not help thinking how much she enjoyed the lady's company. How interesting, to find a friend at Pemberley—of all places! However, it was not long before their ready camaraderie was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Reynolds and the Gardiners as they exited the music room.

"Lady Graham!"

Elizabeth turned on her heel. _Lady_ Graham?

The requisite number of curtsies and bows were exchanged between the principals of the group, but Elizabeth could not help noticing the embarrassed blush which crossed _Lady_ Graham's countenance.

"Would you do me the honour of introducing me to your party, Miss Bennet?"

The voice was barely a whisper, but Elizabeth complied. She was instantly gratified to see that Lady Graham seemed well pleased to make the acquaintance of her relatives—most especially that of her aunt.

At Lady Graham's request, the whole of the party relocated to one of the downstairs sitting rooms. Refreshments were called for and the Gardiners, Miss Bennet, and Lady Graham quickly lost the hours to amiable conversation. Although the lady seemed enthralled by Elizabeth's tales of Hertfordshire and the rather whimsical descriptions of her four sisters, she revealed little about herself other than that her family had originally come from Bath and she had no siblings of her own—though, owing to Elizabeth's colourful accounts—she certainly wished she had!

When Lady Graham inquired as to the Gardiners' home in town, Elizabeth saw the shadow cross her aunt's face. Although neither Gardiner thought themselves unworthy of such company, neither were they insensible to the strictures of society. It would not be beyond the pale for a woman of Lady Graham's status to be surprised at their being from trade. They certainly looked every part the well-bred gentleman and lady. The Gardiners and their niece were therefore quite taken by surprise when Lady Graham voiced some familiarity with Gracechurch Street, and after some moments of conversation regarding the shops and society to be found in that part of the neighborhood, Elizabeth released a long breath she had not realized she had been holding.

The ladies soon determined that they got on very well indeed, though Lady Graham expressed an interest in Mr. Gardiner's affairs as well. Sometime after the final drop of tea had been poured and the last biscuit consumed, Lady Graham turned to address Elizabeth's favourite uncle. "Do you mean to stay long in this part of the country, sir?"

"No, your ladyship," Mr. Gardiner replied with all the geniality of a born gentleman. "I am sorry to say that I mean to travel further north in but three days on a matter of business. I am expected to meet my associates north of Manchester tomorrow week."

"Do you mean to see the mills?" Lady Graham replied smoothly. "I understand Abyford Mills is just north of Manchester and that is has attracted great interest among many men of business and sense such as yourself."

The entire party attempted to hide their surprise that such a lady should know the name or location—or indeed the very existence of a place such as Abyford Mills. The owner there, Mr. Abyford as it were, had designed the mill to operate more as a social experiment than one of the factories more typical of industry towns. The workers were paid good wages, fed two full servings a day from the meal house, and their children even attended a small school on the property. Mr. Abyford had claimed that such considerations, though costly at first, added greatly to his rate and quality of production—to say nothing of the betterment to local society. It was quite a novel concept, though often harangued by other mill owners and men of business for whom profit was the only virtue of trade.

Mr. Gardiner, however, had spoken of little else since they had departed from town. He enjoyed a good income from trade, of course, but he considered himself a man of honour and a father first. He had long struggled with the manner in which many of his supplies made their way to his warehouses, but if Mr. Abyford was to be believed, Mr. Gardiner might find a comfortable and profitable way to extract himself and his interests from the less accommodating factory owners of the north.

"Yes, your ladyship," Uncle Gardiner stammered. "I understand Mr. Abyford has made a great many changes since taking over the mill, and I am eager to see them for myself."

Lady Graham, who seemed quite unaffected by the flagrant talk of business in her company, continued to encourage the conversation in manner so polite and unassuming that they could very well have been discussing the fashionable length of sleeves for ladies' wardrobes this season.

"Yes, of course," she affirmed in animated tones. "I understand Mr. Abyford's meal houses and schools have attracted a great amount of interest in town. And all this at twice the wages of Batterley Mills!"

As Mr. Gardiner was shocked into silence, the lady continued the conversation for the whole of the party.

"Will Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet accompany you?"

The turn in conversation seemed to allow Elizabeth's uncle time to gather his bearings. "Oh, no, my lady!" He replied cordially. "While I have heard Mr. Abyford's mill is vastly improved, I do not think the environs would appeal to Mrs. Gardiner or Miss Bennet half so much as the hills of Derbyshire."

Lady Graham became thoughtful for a moment, before breaking into a grin so brilliant that Elizabeth found herself once again stricken by her considerable beauty. If she did not know Mr. Darcy's exacting nature for herself, she would have found the presence of such a charming widow in his house quite alarming. Her brow furrowed—though how well did she know Mr. Darcy, really?

"Of course!" Exclaimed the enchanting woman who might very well be Mr. Darcy's lover. "You are right, Mr. Gardiner. And how shall you ladies pass the time Mr. Gardiner is away, Mrs. Gardiner? Miss Bennet?"

Mrs. Gardiner replied with her plans to visit what remained of her nearby family and call upon some old acquaintances. Elizabeth—still rather distracted by her questions regarding the relationship between the mysterious lady and the very man who had proposed to her less than four months previously—swallowed her misgivings long enough to express an interest in visiting Peveril Castle.

"I understand there are many historic sights to be seen here at Pemberley, Miss Bennet," Lady Graham said encouragingly. "And I believe the grounds of Pemberley house their own ruins as well." Though Elizabeth briefly wondered at the direction of the conversation, she would not wait long for Lady Graham to reach her object. "Well, then. Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet," Lady Graham said with a clap of her hands, "you shall simply have to stay at Pemberley!"

There was an audible gasp from the direction of Mr. Gardiner. Mrs. Gardiner looked almost frozen. Elizabeth's anxieties quickly welled to apprehension.

"We thank you for your generous offer, Lady Graham, but we could not dream of imposing on your privacy in such a way," Elizabeth offered.

"Nonsense, Miss Bennet!" Lady Graham replied breathlessly, though her countenance turned somber once more. "I would not have you measure the hospitality of my offer until you are acquainted with its selfish means."

A pair of soft brown eyes fixed on Elizabeth and she felt herself being drawn in by their tender expression. There was something there. _Loneliness, perhaps?_ Was this another visible sign of her full morning, or was the lady pining for Mr. Darcy?

"I have quite enjoyed your company this afternoon, brief though our acquaintance has been," Lady Graham supplied. "As I am to remain at Pemberley for… some time, I find I am in great need of company." With a bright smile, Lady Graham turned to Mrs. Gardiner. "I hope you will consider my offer, Mr. Gardiner, Mrs. Gardiner. It has been some time since I was in the company of such fine ladies, and now you have come I find it difficult to give up!"

Though her countenance was cheerful, Elizabeth heard the touch of desperation to her tone.

 _What misery has befallen this odd, beautiful woman? And why has it brought her here, seeking the comfort of strangers?_

Her aunt and uncle exchanged a glance meaningful only to them. It was at this moment that Elizabeth remembered her circumstances. The conversation with Lady Graham had largely distracted her from her earlier worries, but they could not be avoided now.

This was Pemberley. The home of Mr. Darcy. What if he should return and find her here? Surely, he must be on his way back to Derbyshire, even now, if his relation—or otherwise—was taking up residence at Pemberley. Oh! It was in every way impossible! She had to think of some excuse before Mr. Gardiner—

"We are very knowledgeable of the honour of your request, your ladyship. Of course, we would be happy to accept."


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

 **Monday 13 July, 1812  
** ** _Pemberley_**

The ladies of the inn at Lambton removed to Pemberley on the Monday after their first meeting with Lady Graham. They had spent two days together visiting Aunt Gardiner's relations and touring the area. As the third day was Sunday, they had not encountered their soon-to-be hostess since their departure from Pemberley on the week before.

While their trunks were packed and removed in the most orderly fashion time would allow, Mr. Gardiner bid his adieus to his dear wife and niece. As he would no longer need to entrust their care to either Mrs. Gardiner's elderly father or his remaining footman, both Mr. Gardiner's heart and steps had been lightened by the unexpected invitation to Pemberley. Teary-eyed smiles were exchanged as he rose to meet the carriage which would carry him north for a full fortnight, though the ladies did dare not tarry too long out of doors. The grand carriage arrived from Pemberley soon after—They had their own journey to begin.

Elizabeth had repeatedly tried—and failed—to think of any reason, circumstance, or argument against their removal to Pemberley. From morning to night, unsettling thoughts of Mr. Darcy followed her like a dark cloud. She had imagined the unhappy scenario of her eventual meeting with Mr. Darcy again and again, even before setting eyes upon his beautiful grounds at Pemberley. Now that she was to be a guest at his house, she thought of little else.

It was not lost on Elizabeth that Lady Graham had failed to make any mention of Mr. Darcy at their first meeting. Although this lack of information had puzzled her exceedingly, and later troubled her with the implications, Elizabeth assumed she had—after all—little reason to do so. Pemberley was Mr. Darcy's home, Lady Graham was his guest, and the gentleman reserved the right to arrive to it or depart from it without warning whenever he wished. Or, perhaps he was not expected at all?

 _If only there were some way to determine his whereabouts! Complicated, vexing, transient man!_

Elizabeth had considered writing to Jane to inquire directly as to his location from Mr. Bingley, but after some careful reflection she realized she could hardly do such a thing. If Jane had any news of Mr. Darcy, she would surely share it. To involve Mr. Bingley in the whole affair was too dangerous to attempt. What if he mentioned to Mr. Darcy that Miss Bennet had asked after him, only to find Elizabeth sleeping in his fine guest rooms at Pemberley! He would think the worst of her, she was certain.

And so, there was nothing to be done for it. They had been asked to visit Pemberley and they had accepted. She could only hope that the next fortnight passed quickly—and without incident.

 **xxx**

 **Friday 17 July, 1812  
** ** _Pemberley_**

Elizabeth was delighted that the first few days at Pemberley passed very quickly indeed. She had rarely experienced such happy company, and never in such comforts as Mr. Darcy's home readily availed. She found Lady Graham's easy manners to be a welcome distraction from the ever present reminders of Pemberley's misplaced master—the fine lady was even more charming, affable, and entertaining than she been upon their first meeting. Her Aunt Gardiner and Lady Graham were near enough the same age that they had much to discuss—their children being a favoured topic of interest and debate. Elizabeth was prodigiously fond of the young ladies Graham herself and found something to admire in all of them. Annabelle was a precocious tomboy of nine; Cora, a serious and often sulking girl of six; and Fiona, their sprightly, curious, and strikingly tall four year old baby sister, were equally as well behaved and curious of company as children of such an age usually are. Annabelle enjoyed nothing more than to challenge her dear 'Miss Lizzy-beth' to a race across the park, while Cora cried that they should wait for her as her legs were much shorter than the others, and Fiona often busied herself with collecting new and interesting specimens of rocks to add to her growing collection.

And so, the three ladies had passed their days in good cheer—sometimes sewing, playing, singing, walking the grounds, amusing Lady Graham's daughters, or speaking on subjects dear to their hearts. In Elizabeth, Lady Graham found an eager instructor and pupil. Both ladies professed an equal interest in reading, though the elder expressed a fondness for the tragedies that Elizabeth could not carry. Still, she enjoyed hearing Lady Graham recount the adventures of the Greek heroes and Roman gods well enough to claim some new familiarity with the subject. In return, Elizabeth was only too glad to share her passion for more recent works of prose and fiction which debated the nature of man and earth—as well as the few ladies' novels she had discovered on her first tour of the library.

One topic the ladies had not yet broached—and still of paramount importance to Elizabeth Bennet—was that of Mr. Darcy. Four days into their stay, and the gentleman's name had not attached itself to a single conversation. Elizabeth had gathered enough courage to ask after him on their second morning at Pemberley as the ladies broke their fasts, but Lady Graham quickly redirected her attention to their plans to walk the rose gardens that afternoon. _Rather too quickly_ , Elizabeth thought, but there was nothing to be done for it at present. Though Aunt Gardiner admitted to her niece that she found such reticence somewhat odd—she was too well-mannered to engage Lady Graham on a topic she clearly did not wish to discuss. After all, the lady had offered no explanation for her full mourning dress either—a subject neither Aunt Gardiner nor Elizabeth felt comfortable enough to press. They were her guests, after all. If the lady wished for her privacy, she would have it. Elizabeth, who both craved and feared any mention of Mr. Darcy, agreed to follow her good aunt's example.

If it were not for the fact that Elizabeth walked a certain second floor corridor with sage green drapes and a wall of stately portraits several times a day—it might have even been possible to forget whose rooms she sat in, whose books she read, pianoforte she played, tea she drank, or whose luxurious bedding swathed her on sleepless nights. Though she had agreed not to mention him to Lady Graham, Elizabeth's own desire to learn something of the gentleman—such as his whereabouts or any upcoming travel plans, at the very least—seemed to grow stronger with every passing hour. She could not speak of him, and so she could only think of him. She could not work him out, and so she puzzled over his portrait as though _it_ might explain what she had missed. He was here but he was not here, and so she turned to his letter to seek answers.

His name practically burned the tip of her tongue, and yet she could not bring herself to speak it. What if she were to find that he was expected? There was nothing to do but wait and feign disinterest in the gentleman entirely. And so, when she found she could not sleep for thoughts of him, she soothed her tired nerves in her usual way—she returned to the library. Unfortunately, any trip to that grand room necessitated a walk down the gallery corridor—if one wished to be expedient, which of course, she did—and by the time she arrived to her destination there was only one shelf of books which could satisfy some small part of her curiosity.

Mrs. Reynolds had been quite startled the first morning she had discovered Elizabeth Bennet asleep in the great armchair by the fire. With a smile, she had slipped the dog-eared volume of Shakespeare's sonnets from the young lady's hands and carefully returned it to its place on her master's shelf. On the second morning she found the lady so arranged, she only laughed. It certainly was not the first time she had needed to rouse a body from slumber in the great room, and at present she could do with any reminder of the dear master she could lay claim to—even if it did come in the form of this lively lass with the sparkling eyes. Privately, Mrs. Reynolds had become quite taken with the girl. She was pleasant and kind, fond of singing and playing—everything a young lady should be. The housekeeper also knew she had taken to walking the grounds in the morning, starting down the path just beyond the private gardens. The young miss always made a point of greeting the gardeners, asking their names, and making amiable conversation—just as she did with the household staff. As Mrs. Reynold's own nephew could be counted among their ranks, she had nothing but warm thoughts for the girl—even if she was the guest of that horrible woman. As Mrs. Reynolds swept a wayward curl back from the dear girl's brow and lightly patted a knee to wake her, she could not help but think how good such a lady might have been for her master.

Later that same evening, Elizabeth found herself curled once more in what all in the house had come to recognize as her favourite chair. Leaning against the arm of the large, navy adornment nearest the fire, she examined the bindings nearest to her with interest. She tapped her fingers past the elegantly bound spines of Plato, Voltaire, Blake, Johnson, a particularly surprising volume of Thomas Paine, a simply bound copy of something called _Erotica Romana_ —which as of yet she had not dared to read—and finally rested upon a tastefully adorned edition of Wordsworth's _Lyrical Ballads_. As she awaited the appearance of Lady Graham and her aunt, she found herself quite content in the room—if such a meagre word could be applied to the feeling. She sat with the book open in her lap, mesmerized by the slow movement of the colourful shapes across the floor. When her mind began to wander—as it was increasingly wont to do—she imagined him here, enjoying the magnificent prospect before her as she did. Not for the first time, she allowed her thoughts to stray towards the sealed door just beyond the second bank of bookcases. She was certain that the door must lead to his study—his sanctuary. What keys to the mystery of Mr. Darcy might she find there?

Luckily, she was soon distracted by the arrival of Lady Graham and Mrs. Gardiner, who implored her to play a short piece for them in the music room before they were called to dinner. Lady Graham's young daughters, guided by their nannies, had already retired to their rooms. As such, the ladies all agreed they must have some entertainment.

Elizabeth agreed, and the small party soon removed to the glittering pianoforte of the downstairs music room. It was here, on the fifth day of their stay at Pemberley, that the sad—but largely true—tale of Lady Graham emerged.

The lady was seated at the pianoforte beside Elizabeth, who had remained to turn her pages after her own performance had ended. Mrs. Gardiner reclined on an elegant golden settee to one the side of the room. Her condition, now confirmed by a visit from the local midwife, caused her to tire more easily than was her wont, but she positively insisted on spending her afternoons in the company of her niece and hostess before inevitably retiring to her room to rest after dinner.

The ladies had just exchanged places on the bench when Elizabeth drew a selection of scores from one of the small wooden boxes which served to hold the Darcy collection. Though Elizabeth was sure they would need months to do the cases justice, the ladies had already worked through several arrangements in their evenings spent together. When her eyes came across a piece she had not seen before—a lively Scottish aire—she pulled the selection from the case and presented it to her hostess.

"Will this do, do you think?" Elizabeth asked.

"I—I had rather not," Lady Graham stammered. "That is to say that…"

Elizabeth's smile faded as the lady's delicate features began to twist seemingly of their own accord. Though she drew several breaths in an effort to compose herself, it was not long before the elegant and sophisticated Lady Graham fell into Elizabeth's arms and burst into tears.

 **xxx**

Some hours later, Elizabeth sat in her room and slowly, abstractedly went through the motions of brushing out her hair.

She had sent the maid who had been directed to attend to her—a young girl called Emma—away for the evening. Though Emma was useful and amiable company, she preferred to be alone with her thoughts tonight. In her first conversations with the maid, Elizabeth had learned that she had arrived from Northamptonshire along with Lady Graham. It had not occurred to Elizabeth before now that the staff at Pemberley seemed to contain a large number of servants from that part of the country. It was not unheard of for ladies of consequence such as Lady Graham to travel with their own servants, of course, but there did seem to be, well, rather a lot of them.

She wished that she could ask Mrs. Reynolds about the growing staff at Pemberley and what it could mean for the estate—as well as its current servants—but she did not dare. Though she instinctively felt as though she could trust the veteran housekeeper, Lady Graham was still their hostess, and it would not do to undermine her authority in such a way. _Her authority_. Here, Elizabeth was puzzled again. Nearly a full week at Pemberley, and she was still no closer to discovering what sort of relationship—if any—existed between the lady and Mr. Darcy. Although she could not believe Lady Graham the sort of woman to enter into the sort of _arrangement_ Elizabeth knew some widows sought out for their own protection or companionship, she had also seen something of what desperation could do to even the most respectable parties.

After her disclosures this evening, Lady Graham certainly seemed desperate. And Mr. Darcy? What would it take for _that_ gentleman to engage in such an arrangement? Had desperation changed him, or had he simply forgotten her as easily as she believed he would in April?

It was no matter. Mr. Darcy was not here—Lady Graham was.

Elizabeth stared into the reflective glass as she considered the unexpected turn of events which had unfolded that afternoon.

Lady Graham's fit of tears had subsided as quickly as they had begun. Blotting her eyes with Elizabeth's handkerchief, she attempted to reassure her companions of her well-being.

"Lady Graham?" Elizabeth soothed, patting the lady's back in the way Jane best responded to.

"I think you had best call me Marian now," Lady Graham smiled cheerlessly.

Lady Grah— _Marian_ , regarded her company with tear-filled eyes. Aunt Gardiner, who had moved to the pianoforte in an effort to provide the lady with yet another handkerchief, leaned down to place a calming hand on her slender shoulder.

"Of course, my dear," her aunt cooed. "And you must call me Margery."

"And Elizabeth," her niece echoed. "Or Lizzy, if you prefer—as my sisters do."

"I would like that," Lady Graham nodded in thanks, gesturing about the air with her hands for a moment before settling them quite primly in her lap. Once again, she became the very picture, the very soul of propriety. It was a sight to behold. "I suppose I owe you… some, explanation for all this."

"You owe us nothing," Elizabeth offered. "We only wish for you to be well."

Lady Graham shook her head. "You are too kind." Her soft eyes fell upon Mrs. Gardiner, and she added, "both of you." The lady took a deep, steadying breath before she continued. "I am sure it has not escaped your notice that I tend to favour black." She laughed a bit at this pronouncement and thought it would have been polite for the ladies to follow suit, they did not attempt it.

"You have lost your husband," Mrs. Gardiner delivered without fanfare.

Lady Graham looked up to meet Mrs. Gardiner's kind eyes with an expression of such wounded sincerity that it nearly broke that strong lady's heart. "To lose a husband at such an age, and with so many young children… I could not imagine."

"Yes," Lady Graham— _Marian_ replied softly. "Or rather, two."

"Two!" Elizabeth cried, thinking it quite impossible that such a young woman should have not one, but two departed husbands. Twice a widow? How did she bear it! Elizabeth quickly apologized for her outburst, but Marian only shook her head. Aunt Gardiner offered another compassionate squeeze of her hand.

Marian's eyes rested on the pages still clutched in Elizabeth's hand. "That song you chose… It was my husband's favorite." She cleared her throat before continuing. "He used to beg me to play it for him. My second husband, that is. Artair. Artair Graham."

"He was a Scotsman?" Aunt Gardiner inquired gently.

The lady's countenance warmed with a memory she kept to herself. "The very image, yes." A long moment passed before she continued. Elizabeth stroked her hand in her own while she gathered her thoughts. "I became a widow for the second time five years ago," Marian explained. "I did not yet know of—of Fiona."

Aunt Gardiner's stout heart was now near full to bursting.

"I have not… I wear the black because I will not marry again, you see," Marian indicated her elegant gown with her free hand. "Two husbands gone is quite enough."

Elizabeth only nodded and continued to pat Marian's hand. She had never known love, though she had often imagined what it might be like. She had pictured long walks and shared confidences, passion and laughter—she had imagined a future, a family. Perhaps it was an indication of her youth that she had never imagined what it might be like to lose such affection once it had been gained. Yet here before her was the proof of it—not the product of an idle imagination or a fanciful tale from a storybook—but the true result of a love lost, as all love must eventually be. Elizabeth, who had long since concluded that she was unlikely to ever find a man she could hold in her truest regards—was suddenly unsure if she even wished for such an affectation. To give every part of yourself to another, only to lose them—it was an ardour she could not envy. And yet, she did. Her gentle heart ached for her friend.

"My first husband, well, it was not a love match," Marian volunteered. "But he came from a good family and I do believe he would have become quite a good man, had he been given the time." The lady caught Elizabeth's sympathetic glance and made an effort to clarify without straying too far from the truth. "I was never treated badly, you understand, but we were very young. I bore him an heir in the first year of our marriage, and when he passed soon after… his parents had gone only the year before. I was left to the care of his paternal aunt, for there was no one else to take us in. I had never met the lady before and she… well, we did not get on as well as I had hoped. I was not what she had hoped for in a niece and she made her misgivings known. Still, I had given them their heir and so I was taken under the protection of the family. They were never cruel. It was a difficult situation for all involved, of course, and one none of us could have anticipated."

Marian's eyes went black for a moment, as if her giving voice to the past had pulled her back into a tangle of what must have been dark memories. Elizabeth, seeking to deliver her from such recollections, put forth a question of her own.

"But you remarried?"

Her reply, as Elizabeth had hoped, rang light. "Yes, I did," she explained. "The brother of my husband eventually learned of my treatment in his aunt's home and had me removed from her care. I was afforded a house in town, and my son, James, was sent to school."

"How did you meet?" Aunt Gardiner asked. "Was it very romantic?" Elizabeth looked to her aunt, half expecting to see Lydia in her place. _Margery Gardiner, who would have believed it?_

However—as Aunt Gardiner expected—Marian brightened. "I was walking in the rose gardens of Hyde Park one morning when he came upon me. I admit, I was feeling quite sorry for myself. I missed my son, and my husband as well, of course. My old life." Marian blinked back another course of unshed tears, but she continued on nonetheless. "I met him in the gardens. Or, I should say, he met me. Every morning for two weeks, as a matter of fact. He was really quite persistent! He had immediately set upon the idea that I was _the great adventure of his life_ , as he called it. He was very decided."

"And what of you?" Elizabeth wondered aloud, her voice just above a whisper. "Did you fall in love at first sight as well?" _Now who was sounding like Lydia Bennet? My, what a week amongst Miss Darcy's novels had done to me!_

Marian only laughed, and the room seemed to warm with her good cheer. "Not at all! I thought he was fit for Bedlam!" she cried. "He was forever following me about, compelling me to accept him. He sent vases upon vases of roses to my door in town, and he would call every day."

"Every day!" two Lydias exclaimed.

The lady nodded, a conspiratorial smile teasing her lips. "And yet I refused him still! I must have refused him a hundred times, if not more, by the time he convinced me to accept him."

"How did he finally secure your regard?" pressed Aunt Gardiner.

Marian took a moment to consider her response. Elizabeth leaned forward on the bench, eager to receive whatever certain knowledge was to be found in the lady's answer. When it came, she did not understand it, though it did not follow that she never would.

"I am still not entirely sure! I think he may have secured my regard that first day in the rose garden, though I hardly knew it myself at the time. To speak the truth, I believe we had always been meant for one another. Loving him, and learning to love him, was the greatest adventure of my life—just as he said it would be. Everything else was my own stubborn disposition. One day, I looked upon him and I saw it all—the end, the middle, the beginning. I just knew."

The tension in the room had evaporated now, and a strange, warm feeling began to swell in Elizabeth's chest. She wanted to hear more about this adventure—regardless of how simple and frivolous such behaviour made her feel. Marian, feeling somewhat soothed by the endeavour, did not disappoint.

"As my first husband's family had no need of me, I travelled with Artair to Scotland. We were married at Gretna Green."

"Gretna Green!" Elizabeth exclaimed, unable to stop herself. _Though mayhap Lydia might have the right of some things after all!_ Marian's tale—though heartbreaking—was thrilling as well.

"The very one!" Marian sang. "So scandalous! Though I will say that it is not so bad as all that for a Scotsman." A wistful smile touched her lips as memories of happier days played across her countenance. "We lived quite happily there. He had lost a wife in childbirth, so perhaps we were better matched than most. He had already been given a living son and heir, and so I was free to give him as many daughters as he chose." Lost in her recollections, the lady released a reverent sigh. "He called me his English rose, and the girls his little rosebuds. He was a very loving father. A very loving husband."

Suddenly, her face darkened as the party knew it must and she seemed to age before them. "He was returning home from town when he saw that a carriage had been set upon by highwaymen on the road to Edinburgh. He was determined to save them—and in the end, he did. Three young ladies and their mother. But he did not come home to us." The stream of tears held back by her thick lashes began to fall again, and she dabbed at them with Mrs. Gardiner's borrowed handkerchief. "He was born a son of heroes, you see. I should have known he would leave me in such a way. He was too good and too noble to live in this world. I only hope he awaits me in the next."

The tension had returned. Elizabeth, seeking to soothe her friend's troubled countenance, tried to move the conversation to happier grounds. "And now you have come to stay at Pemberley?"

"Yes," Marian offered quietly. "I could not stay in Scotland any longer. The lands, the house… I saw him everywhere I looked. It was all too much. Even my daughters…" she trailed off. "They have his eyes."

Aunt Gardiner began to stroke the Marian's back as she fought to regain her composure. At length, she continued. "I could barely care for myself, let alone my children. My husband's eldest son took over the management of his father's estate, and though he was kind to us, I could not bear to stay. And so, I wrote the only person I could think of to return us to England. I had no other family to speak of. He was all that remained."

"You wrote to your first husband's brother?" Elizabeth surmised. _But Mr. Darcy did not have a brother_ , as far as she knew. And he had inherited the estate from his father—he did not manage the property in the name of an adolescent nephew or anyone else.

"Yes," Marian replied, interrupting Elizabeth's wandering thoughts. "As I said, it was not the best of marriages, but my son is to inherit upon his majority. And my husband's brother was always kind to me, though we saw him but rarely. I returned to the family home, by then long empty, and we have continued there for the last four years. That is, until now."

"You will stay at Pemberley, then? Are you at all acquainted with the Darcys?" Aunt Gardiner finally inquired. Elizabeth blessed her for it.

"I am not particularly well acquainted with the Darcys," Marian offered. "Nor do I know how long I am meant to remain at Pemberley. I was told to come, and come we have. It is a welcome change of scenery, of course." She brightened again, and though Elizabeth was glad of it, her own concerns burned in her heart now. _Where was Mr. Darcy?_

Marian, as she had on their first day at Pemberley, quickly changed the subject in the most elegant manner possible. "Margery, Elizabeth—I have rarely gone into company these past five years, and I confess that I have become quite lonely as a result. You cannot know what your friendship has meant to me. In fact, Pemberley is already quite promising. I believe I would be very happy to make a future here."

Elizabeth sighed as she replaced her brush, removed her gown, and climbed under the counterpane in her grand bed with the volume of Wordsworth she had taken from the library.

 _Yes, to make a future at Pemberley._

 _Such a thought surely would bring anyone joy._

 **xxx**

 **Saturday 25 July, 1812  
** ** _Pemberley_**

"I hope you will write to me, Lizzy," Marian suddenly announced as the two ladies made their way down the path towards Pemberley. "I will have nothing to fill my time but the reading and writing of letters when you and Margery return to town."

"Of course I shall write to you!" Elizabeth exclaimed, "though I must warn you against any anticipation you might feel as to the content of my letters. I intend to stay with my aunt at Gracechurch Street through her confinement, and I doubt we will have anything of interest to report besides the weather."

Marian began to laugh at such a prospect and Elizabeth soon joined her. Though they both felt for Margery Gardiner, who had taken ill for most of the second week of their visit, they had repeatedly been assured by the midwife that she was in no real danger. As a result, the two remaining women of Pemberley had forged ahead with their unlikely friendship and discovered a true camaraderie of spirit.

"I am sure any letter of yours could not fail to delight, my dear" Marian declared proudly. "You have a prodigious talent for turning a phrase to your advantage, as you well know."

"Yes, I may have misspoken," Elizabeth demurred, leaping gracefully over a wayward stone which blocked their path. "I suppose you would also have an interest in the health of all my relations, living and dead, as well as the state of the roads. As to the roads, I will endeavour to commit every particular of their condition to memory as we travel to town. Anything I have to say after that point will be mere conjecture, of course, but I shall be glad to include any assumptions relating to their seasonal wear if you wish."

"I will be glad to receive any reports you like," the older woman considered with a tilt of her head, "though perhaps you may wish to save such delicate subjects until we meet again. I would not have you breach propriety on my account. The roads are entirely too masculine a subject for mannerly correspondence and they are like to think we mean to take Parliament if we are discovered. No, my dear, you had much better write of lace."

Though the two carried on toward the house in companionable conversation, Elizabeth could not help the slight distraction raised in her regarding their earlier topic of conversation—the post. It had been over a week since her last letter from Jane, who was generally considered to be the most faithful correspondent of all the Bennets. Elizabeth had written several of her own letters in that time, describing her aunt's unfortunate illness, as well as its fortunate cause, and thus Elizabeth's own plans to remain with the Gardiners in town, should her father permit it. She had also faithfully related every detail of the various day trips to view Derbyshire's many impressive sights, and waxed eloquent on the charming company of the ladies Graham at considerable length—yet she had received nothing in return. While it was possible that Jane's missives may have been misdirected, Elizabeth found it unlikely. After all, Jane's correspondence had grown increasingly vague as Elizabeth had traveled into Derbyshire, and especially so since she had come to stay at Pemberley. _Could Mr. Bingley be the source of Jane's distraction?_ Elizabeth wondered. She certainly hoped not, for if so, her sister may very well never pen two coherent words together again.

The lack of information from home was especially vexing given the niggling concerns Elizabeth continued to experience with regards to Mr. Darcy. Her stay at Pemberley was nearly at an end and yet she had heard nothing more of the gentleman beyond that he was not expected to return to Derbyshire for some time. Mrs. Reynolds, once a veritable fountain of information on the gentleman and all his relations, had suddenly gone full silent when Elizabeth had inquired as to his health and—as indirectly as she could manage—his present location. To make matters worse, Elizabeth's efforts to glean any information regarding his vague connection to Lady Marian Graham were continuously brushed aside by that very lady. However elegantly such dismissals were performed—Elizabeth's patience was beginning to wear thin. She had studied his portraits and his books and the door to his study, but none of these artifacts offered any answers. In fact, she found herself puzzling over the man more than ever. It was intolerable.

Early that very morning, Elizabeth had decided that today would be the day she would finally broach the subject of Mr. Darcy with her hostess. While Elizabeth found Marian everything that was amiable and kind, she could not account for the lady's silence with regards to the master of the very estate she now presided over, and the same disconcerting anxieties surrounding any relationship he and the widowed Lady Graham might have returned to plague her consciousness. Yes, Marian had said that she would never marry again—but Elizabeth was old enough to understand that _marriage_ was not considered a necessity in some _arrangements_ preferred by the town set. The very thought that her new friend and Mr. Darcy had come to any agreement of such a nature set off a flood of tangled emotions in Elizabeth which she had no desire to sort through at present. A warmth tickled her spine. _No_ , she would prefer to think the best of Marian, and she would prefer to think of Mr. Darcy not at all. But first, she must know.

"Marian," she ventured, much in the same way she had practiced in her mirror. "When we first met in the gallery, why did you introduce yourself as Mrs. Graham?"

It was not _the_ question which continued to vex her, nor was it any of the jumbled thoughts or disordered recollections which had so often sent her to Mr. Darcy's library with only a candle to keep her company—but it was a start.

Marian offered the shy smile that Elizabeth was beginning to know well. She admired Marian's good nature, but she would not allow it to distract her from her purpose on this day. Adopting an air of nonchalance, Elizabeth steeled herself for what would come next.

"I have found that being a 'Mrs' rather than a 'Lady' has a propensity to vastly extend the reach of my social circle," Marian explained with all the candour of a saint. "I did not wish to frighten you."

As they continued down the path, Elizabeth considered Marian's response.

"Do you often have reason for such concerns?" she said plainly. "I believe we are taught to expect that a title such as yours is more likely to _open_ doors than it is to _close_ them."

"Anyone who has taught you such a thing is no better than a liar," Marian asserted in a voice more tense than was usual. Noticing Elizabeth's expression of surprise, her countenance softened and she attempted to explain. "I mean only to say that society can be… rather limiting. Though my father's earldom was a small one, he was by no means of little consequence, especially in our part of the country. As such, I had little contact with the ladies of the neighborhood he considered beneath me—which was very nearly all of them."

"Did you have no one to confide in?" Elizabeth condoled. Although she knew Marian to have been an only child, she had never considered that she might lacked companionship entirely.

"I suppose," Marian began, "that as I had the audacity not to be born a boy, as my mother had planned, she had little time to spare for me. I do not mean to say that I was neglected. There were times when we received visitors and other relations came to call. And our nearest neighbors, the Fitzwilliams, were considered more than acceptable company, of course."

"The Fitzwilliams!" Elizabeth very nearly gasped. "Do you mean the Darcy Fitzwilliams?"

"Yes," Marian acknowledged with a nostalgic smile. "The very same. A small world, is it not?"

 _I have done it!_ _I have discovered the connection at last!_ Elizabeth momentarily congratulated herself before realizing that she had yet to gain any real answers to her most imperative questions. _A small world indeed!_ She did not wish to pry into the private matters of her friends, but instinctively she knew that not all was as it appeared with Lady Marian Graham—and all was not as it appeared at Pemberley. Though she did not wish to marry the man, she could not rest until she had unraveled the latest mystery surrounding Mr. Darcy. "Were you familiar with Mr. Darcy's mother then?" Elizabeth put forward in a steady voice. "I believe she was a Lady Anne Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes," Marian repeated. "Yes, I was. Very well acquainted, actually—despite our difference in age. She was older than I, but I hung on her every word as a child and sought to emulate her in every way possible as I made my own way into society." Marian's wistful smile was contagious, and Elizabeth soon found herself admiring a lady she would never meet. "She was everything lovely. The most beautiful and accomplished lady ever of my acquaintance. And so kind! She married when she was still full-young as many did in those days, at the urging of her father. I believe he was ill at the time and wished to see her well-settled."

"And so she came here, to Pemberley?" Elizabeth reflected, imagining the lady's carriage pulling up the long drive they now traveled together. The house, which never failed to impress Elizabeth from this vantage—or indeed, any vantage—beckoned them from the shade of the distant peaks. "She must have been well pleased."

"I believe she was, after a time. She used to write to me, you know, when she first came here. I believe she worried I might go distracted from the loss of her company," Marian laughed. "And I suppose she was right. I was married not long after, and without even a proper season in town! I believe I thought I might find better company outside my father's house, but in the end I married a man from the same neighborhood and found that marriage did little to improve much of anything—aside from providing me with the love of a son, of course. But as to the society, I can attest to the fact that the society there is much the same now as it ever was—confined, unvarying, and terribly dull."

Elizabeth was reeling. She had remained as silent as a church-mouse as Marian had recounted somewhat of her youth and her recollections of Lady Anne Darcy—practically devouring the few, precious morsels she had thus far obtained.

"And Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth uttered throatily, her mouth full dry. "Did Lady Anne write to you of him?"

"I suppose you mean the present Mr. Darcy," Marian replied with a tilt of her head. "Yes, she wrote to me of him often—of his adventures in the tree tops, his disappearing into the lakes at all hours, and his pilfering of the kitchens. I remember that was quite fond of sweets, as all children are, I suppose. Anne would often ask us to send honey candy from our hives at Christmas."

"Disappearing into the lakes?" Elizabeth heard herself ask.

"Why, yes!" Marian teased, "I should show you how it is done but I fear we are rather overdressed for the occasion. I believe he and the other boy—a steward's son—used to strip down to the skin before jumping in!"

"Mr. Darcy!" Elizabeth cried, struggling to right the image of the carefree child Marian described with the excessively composed, taciturn gentleman she had met in Hertfordshire.

"Indeed," Marian laughed. "I believe the other boy was rather a lot of trouble. But Anne seemed to think young William was like to walk on water rather than swim in it, so it hardly signifies."

" _Mr. Wickham_?" Elizabeth breathed. She had not realized she had spoken aloud until Marian grabbed ahold of her arm to stop her from walking.

"Yes, Mr. Wickham," the lady answered with wide, questioning eyes. "Elizabeth, are you at all acquainted with the gentleman? Mr. Darcy, I mean. I admit that I had not thought to ask before, but I… I had assumed—"

"Only a very little," Elizabeth interjected with all the sincerity of a woman who honestly and truthfully does not know a man but had been proposed to by him all the same. "I would hardly call it much of an acquaintance. We met last fall when he stayed with a friend near my home in Hertfordshire. And then we met again, very briefly, while I visited my friend Charlotte Collins in Kent."

"Is she some relation to Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud at the thought that her sniveling, buffoon of a cousin, also Charlotte's husband, might be mistaken for even a distant relation of Lady Catherine de Bourgh—but a sudden chill in the air stopped her. "No," she conceded. "My cousin, Mr. Collins, currently holds the living at Hunsford under the direction of Mr. Darcy's aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

Elizabeth believed she had explained this all before, but it seemed as though Marian was suddenly hearing all the information she had provided regarding her home, her family, her friendships—indeed, even her _brief acquaintances_ with new ears. Worse, she appeared excessively troubled.

"Catherine!" Marian exclaimed. "Yes, of course." The lady's nerves seemed to settle a bit, but she still looked rather more pale than usual.

"Would you like to return to the house, Lady Graham?" Elizabeth suggested, worried for her friend's health. "You look as though you might have caught a chill. Perhaps we have walked too far today?"

"Yes, yes," Marian echoed. "I believe that would be best." She cast a weak smile at Elizabeth. "I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. I should not speak so often of the past. I mean to remember the present more often than I do, and perhaps… even think of the future. The past holds nothing for me but unfulfilled dreams and painful memories. I mean to create new ones. If not for myself, then for my children."

Her soft eyes were searching as she clutched Elizabeth's hands in her own.

"I must create new ones, you see?"

Elizabeth could only agree.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks to all who have been encouraging, questioning, and wondering aloud in the comments. Your thoughts help make my writing better and allow me to answer some of your questions along the way!

Also, quick reminder that PL is currently clocking in at around 35ish chapters, so while it's (highly) unlikely that anything and everything will be entirely cleared up in the next few postings, I can now promise progress at the very least. We're catching up to the point I have written, so I won't be posting _every day_ like I have been all week in the future. Still, I'll be posting a lot, so make sure you follow for new updates.

Lots to look forward to in the next chapter! Please comment with your thoughts, feedback, and - well - anything else!

Thank you! :)

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE**

 _"They therefore, as to right belonged,  
_ _So were created, nor can justly accuse  
_ _Their Maker or their making, or their fate,  
_ _As if predestination overruled  
_ _Their will disposed by absolute decree  
_ _Or high foreknowledge"  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book III –_

 **Saturday 1 August, 1812  
** **Hertfordshire**

In the early morning rays of an unusually bright summer sun, one had to squint to make out the soft lines of a young woman's light form as it descended from the carriage. It was hired, of course, and the fare from the village was known to be exceedingly economical. Though the small gig had carried its bounty only the short distance, the young lad at the reigns felt as though he had traversed near half the country by the time he slowed to round the bend which would lead to the lady's destination.

 _Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she was!_

And so pretty, too. Not even her modest bonnet could completely tame the lady's mane of rich, glossy curls—their colour so warm it reminded him of roasted chestnuts in winter. Her dark eyes sparkled and laughed and it was all he could do to keep his eyes on the road as she spoke to him of the faraway places she had been and the incredible things she had seen.

It was just as well that his brother had taken sick the night before, for if he had been well enough to drive his fare from Meryton's coach today—well, he never would have so much as opened his mouth to speak to the finest lady he had ever seen! He had heard her elder sister Jane described as the most handsome girl in the county, but surely it could not be so! Miss Elizabeth was everything charming! She had bright eyes, a sharp wit, and was ever so kind in her conversation.

She had been sweet to ask after his father and even seemed to remember _him_! How she could come to recall their sole encounter before this day—an unhappy occasion in which he had thrown a rock at her younger sister, Kitty, from his position in a tree—but remember it she did! Surely, that must mean something! She laughed and smiled and even called him ' _Mr. Flowers_ ' in a soft voice that made his heart race faster than any horse he had ever ridden. By the time they reached her father's door and the servants unloaded her trunk, he was already half in love with the lady.

Unfortunately for Mr. Flowers, this is not his love story.

Though, perhaps it should be mentioned that he _would_ eventually end up very happily wed to a woman of rich brown curls, sparkling eyes, and a sharp wit. Her name was Miss Molly McDaniels, and she was the butcher's daughter. For all one knows, the most essential difference between the two women, aside from their relative positions in society, was that only one of the two was not presently half in love with another man. And so it soon passed that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was quite forgot by Mr. Samuel Flowers of the Meryton gig-cart, Miss Molly McDaniels was duly married, and our story goes on.

"My dear girl." Mr. Bennet smiled, removing his spectacles and closing his book at the first sight of her. He had heard her approach to the house, but as was not in the habit of appearing unduly excited, he remained seated at his desk. "I am excessively glad to see you."

"And I you," Elizabeth replied warmly. There were few she loved better than her father, and she had long understood the feeling to be mutual—though neither were particularly inclined to speak of their shared regard aloud. Such tender expressions could hardly be diverting enough to entertain either!

Elizabeth scrunched her nose.

"Though it seems you are the only one, papa." Elizabeth raised both a brow and a hand at this pronouncement, gesturing dramatically into the hall.

"Ah, yes," her father acknowledged with a shake of his head. "Your mother has taken your sisters into Meryton this morning to call on your Aunt Phillips. It seems some emergency has arisen regarding the proper length of your sleeves." He nodded gravely at the bared arms of his second-eldest daughter and pursed his lips together in a tight frown.

"Worry not, my dear, I am sure your mother will soon have things set to rights. I suppose I shall find out when the accounting arrives. She has been… uncommonly silly, of late." He caught his daughter's eye, "Yes, even for her. I would ask you to impart some sense to the situation, but I would not have you so belaboured so soon after returning home. It has been some time since I anticipated any miracles from that quarter, and you," he winked, "would do better to gather your strength. And of course Jane will no doubt have some quite unbelievable, entirely astonishing, and wholly unexpected news or other to acquaint you with, I am sure."

With that, Mr. Bennet replaced his spectacles, took up his book, and resumed his reading. His daughter only shook her head.

"It is good to see you, Lizzy."

"It is good to be home, papa."

And, Elizabeth decided, it _was_ good to be home. She had, of course, hoped to travel to town with the Gardiners after leaving Pemberley and the ever-perplexing Lady Marian Graham. All the arrangements had been made, her trunks sent for, and her father's acceptance granted. They had just finished packing their trunks when her mother's letter had arrived.

The lady of Longbourn was quite clear in her refusal.

Elizabeth would _not_ go to town, as her father had agreed—entirely without her mother's consent, as was usual for a gentleman with such a _high opinion_ of his own understanding. For what did _he_ know of where or how or when a daughter should be moved anywhere for any sort of particular advantage to either her society or her person or her prospects? He could fiddle with his books all he liked, but it was clear he knew nothing of such _delicate matters_ as these, no matter what _he_ had to say about it! Obviously, her mother _always_ knew what was best in such matters!—as was her _right!_ —but that was beside the matter.

 _The matter was,_ of course, that Mr. Morris, formerly of Netherfield Park, was dead.Elizabeth, initially ignorant as to why such a tragedy befalling the Morris family should be of material benefit to her, or anyone for that matter, was very soon informed of the pivotal role she was meant to play in her mother's newly laid plans.

It seemed that Mr. John Barry, both the nephew of Mr. Morris and Lizzy's childhood playmate, had now inherited Netherfield. As much as any man _could_ inherit Netherfield, her mother contended, as it was _certain_ that Mr. Bingley would take it up when he married Jane! Oh, what a clever surprise it would be! And Jane would look so lovely in her wedding clothes, provided Mr. Bennet would _only let them go to town_!

Oh! but Mr. John Barry was himself _quite_ well off! And he had his own estate, so he had no reason to throw off Mr. Bingley. None at all! And, for _whatever reason_ , he seemed to like Lizzy very much when they were children, though she was not _near as handsome_ as Jane nor _half so lively_ as Lydia, but as Jane was to marry Mr. Bingley and Lydia was in Brighton, Mr. Barry might as well have Lizzy. Mrs. Bennet had had it from Mrs. Long that he lived on _four thousand a year_ now that his miserly old uncle was dead. Why, he was near the richest man in all of Hertfordshire! Other than Mr. Bingley, _of course_ , of whom not enough could be said at present! And to have _two_ such son-in-laws! Lady Lucas might very well eat her bonnet!

Elizabeth shook her head and tried to sort some sense from her mother's ramblings.

Mrs. Bennet seemed to hold two equally confounding opinions which put a firm stop to her daughter's continuing to London. The first, that Mr. Barry should come to Meryton for the discharging of Mr. Morris' estate. The second, that Lizzy must return home at once and marry him. Preferably before Michaelmas.

And so, against all reasonable arguments to the contrary, it had been decided. Elizabeth's trunks had returned from their journey to London only the night before her person. Everyone seemed happy enough with the arrangements, save Hill, who had the unhappy task of packing and unpacking Miss Elizabeth's trunks, and Elizabeth—who, after some careful thought, had become quite attached to the idea of spending the better part of a year in town.

Still, Elizabeth Bennet was not made for ill-humour, nor was she made to dwell on her regrets.

Tying the soft ribbons of her bonnet fast around her chin, Longbourn's second daughter set aside her reticule, took up a basket, buttoned up her lightest pelisse, and set off to stretch her legs in the direction of Oakham Mount.

She would dwell on nothing, think of no one, and walk until her mind was clear enough to return home wearing something that could pass for a happy smile.

 **xxx**

It had been near dawn when he stirred to meet the day—though it was not _so_ near as to allow him any avoidance of the rather sharp stool edge which jutted so cannily from the bedside. The pain was not entirely unexpected. He had encountered a similar fate on a good many mornings over the course of the past several weeks. So many mornings, in fact, that it would have been entirely sensible for the gentleman to arrange for the absention—or at the very least, amelioration—of such a spiteful article, if only to guard against the repetitive battering of his shins. Indeed, to carry on, day after day, morning after morning in such a fashion would have very nearly _insensible_.

And so, insensible he was. For the time being, insensible he was glad to remain.

Offering a stiff kick to the wooden leg in a show of violent retribution, a stream of decidedly ungentlemanly oaths to were released upon the room at large. It was a small vengeance he cast on the offending article, day after day, repeated each morning in response to the wholly preventable assault on his person.

It was often the most pleasant moment of his day.

Sufficiently contented with the dispatching of his most pressing morning ritual, he made his way to the dressing table to attend to the others. He filled the basin with cool water, wet a linen rag, and attempted to avoid meeting the bedraggled reflection which awaited him the polished glass. He had no desire to meet the eyes of the man who had been Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Instead, his tired gaze fell upon on the stacks of papers which covered most every available surface save the bed, that _vile_ stool, and the dressing table where he now stood. Though they had been reasonably well arranged some time ago, the piles now sank and slid and swept into one another in a manner entirely opposed to his character. The documents so hastily gathered from his house in town mixed carelessly with those he had sent for from Derbyshire. His exacting records, careful figurings, and meticulous journals had never seen such a haphazard state, and in some places their loosened sheets fell to the floor. He did not collect them. The stacks from his solicitors, which had started out in neatly arranged bundles at the center of the dining table, had soon become overwhelmed by a seemingly endless slew of unopened or unattended correspondence. Most of it was addressed to him, but not all. In the beginning—in the weeks before the piles had sifted into themselves—he had added his own returned missives to the stack when it became clear that his uncle Fitzwilliam, _unlike his own father_ , was indeed a man of his word.

When the Earl of Matlock had threatened his nephew the cut direct if he agreed to honour George Darcy's debts, Darcy had not been entirely sure he believed him. To be fair, he had other, more pressing concerns at the time. But when the dust left behind in Mr. Hadley's wake had settled, the legendary resolve of the fourth Earl Fitzwilliam proved genuine and Darcy had been, as promised, swiftly cast off by his own family.

At least his letters to Georgiana, when he had written to her, had not been returned. She had been placed with the earl and his wife in town until Richard was freed from his duties long enough to make the trip to Matlock. She had protested at first, but Georgiana had eventually agreed to leave Darcy House when her brother had explained to her in no uncertain terms that _he_ could no longer be considered responsible for her care. She still had a chance to make a life for herself—and Darcy would not be the one to take it from her. He could not let his father's ghost claim Georgiana's future as well.

His uncle had heartily agreed, of course, provided that Darcy left town immediately. His presence would only encourage gossip, and the whispers of society's matrons would not satisfied with only his name to drag through the ashes. The scandal coming for the Darcy and Fitzwilliam houses was unavoidable, but the rest of his family might be able to withstand the blaze and survive—as long as they kept their distance from George Darcy's heir. _He_ who had lost everything. _He_ who had allowed his darling Georgiana to lose her home.

It had been now been several weeks since he had written to her. He had given up the practice when it became clear that he was unlikely to receive anything in return. He might have continued to write, if only to gratify his own, selfish feelings. But he found he could not—for loathe as he was to admit it—he could think of nothing to say to her.

He pushed the tender thoughts of Georgiana aside and continued to ready himself for his day. It would not do to dwell on the past. It held no affection for him and he quite returned the sentiment.

His routine was simpler now, a fact which he was very near to appreciating. Unfortunately he now found little use for Maxwell's extensive tutelage on the subject of intricately knotted cravats, but he did not mind claiming the many dressing hours for his day for other pursuits. No longer in need of such elegant attire, he dressed quickly; donning only his breeches, shirtsleeves, and a simple tan waistcoat which he covered with a dark sage field jacket. The coat was rather warm for the business he meant to complete today, but his vestments were much less fitted than those he had become accustomed to as the master of Pemberley. As he did not plan to venture far, he assumed it would be off again before long.

As went about his preparations, he considered—as he did every morning, most of the afternoon, and well into the night—how it had come to this. His thoughts became more fantastic with every passing day.

 _An ancient curse? A wronged gypsy traveller? Some unheeded omen?_

But no. In truth, there was nothing remotely mystifying about it. It had been easy enough to validate his father's signatures on the documents Mr. Hadley had presented. His solicitors—his father's before him—had ample evidence to compare it to. Of course, such verification had been unnecessary for Darcy. He had recognized the truth of Hadley's claim immediately. Though the marker had been written rather ill—hardly unusual when one overindulged to whatever abominable heights had led his father to make such thoughtless, profane, _damning_ wagers—George Darcy's signature was clear as day to the son who had grown up at his knee.

Such irrefutable evidence may have _informed_ Darcy, but it did little to help him understand.

He knew that many gentlemen, and even ladies, had wagered and lost their fortunes, estates, and even their equipage in return for a night's pleasure of risks and rewards. Tens of thousands of pounds were still gambled away in the blink of an eye in even the best clubs in town—including his own. Darcy knew not what sort of miserable gambling hell of ill-repute his father had wandered into on the wild streets of Bombay, but it was likely that no greater fortunes were won or lost there than at White's or Boodle's.

Darcy winced.

How his father, of all men—a man he had once thought the very soul of honour and respectability—could have thrown away the work of his life, his legacy, the future of his name, all for a few hands of cards! A few turns of chance! A few coins… Darcy did not _understand_ that at all, if such a thing could hope to be understood.

He tried to reconcile these competing visions of his father. He pictured the reverence with which George Darcy had first held Georgiana in his arms and saw the tears that had crept down his cheeks. He recalled the steel in his eyes when he had delivered Darcy the lessons which had shaped his own rigid sense of duty. He heard the soft murmur of his father's voice as he had carried Darcy's mother up the stairs, night after night, when she became too weak to walk.

But, Darcy admitted, these were not his _only_ visions of his father. His father had also been the man who had raised Wickham—spoilt him, offered him every opportunity for indulgence and none of the discipline he had regularly served his own son. There were other memories too, floating just under the surface of his consciousness—the distant sound of raised voices carrying words too cruel to be remembered.

Darcy shook the muddled thoughts from his head.

Although he could not understand _ho_ w his father had done such a thing, the fact was that he _had_ done it all the same. And though it appeared George Darcy had not been a man of honour, Darcy had decided that his son would be. Even if he were not deemed so by others—society, his uncle, or the rancid, sneering, hypocrites of town—well, he had no father left to credit, no noble legacy to compliment, and no stifling obligations to obey.

He was only Fitzwilliam Darcy now, and he might as well honour himself if there was nothing else left for him to be.

Darcy shook his head at the rich irony of it all as he pulled on his boots. To think that every comfort of his present situation was due to Miss Bennet! _Miss_ _Jane_ _Bennet_ —of all people in the world!

When he had come upon Caroline Bingley in Hyde Park, quite by accident—on his part at least, for it was not the fashionable hour—he could not have known how his fortunes would change. After his final meeting with his solicitors, he had intended to clear his head with a long walk through the green when he came upon Miss Bingley. He might have walked past her, so distracted he was by this thoughts, but she, having adopted the costume of a peacock, was near impossible to miss. And so, despite his unpleasant disposition, he stopped to exchange pleasantries with the lady and her sister. Though the sight of Miss Bingley rarely inspired _any_ reflections of a positive bent, he was surprised to find that in this particular instance—it did.

Namely, reflections of his time spent in Hertfordshire, _before_ it had all gone so wrong.

Despite the disaster looming at his door, he had not been able to evict Elizabeth Bennet from the space she had claimed in his heart. He had come to accept the certain inevitability of his thoughts turning to her—they did so whether he wished it or not—and so he had reasoned that he might as well find some enjoyment in the endeavor. However, he had not forgotten her reproaches either. His meeting with Miss Bingley, brief as it was, put him in mind of a wrong he _could_ right. It has seemed—at the time—a balm to soothe his troubled conscience. He must have some occupation, after all, and if he was to be an honourable man who attended to his own failures, he supposed he had best start with Bingley.

Initially, it had not gone well.

"You mean to tell me she was in town, all those months!" Bingley had bellowed, his face crimson with rage.

"Yes," Darcy confessed. "I am sorry to have misled you, Bingley. Though my interference was done with the best of intentions, I see now that I have erred in separating you from Miss Bennet. It was by the fault of my misguided impressions and selfish pride that you came to be separated from the lady, and I would not keep you from her a moment longer. If you still affect the lady, I beg you would follow your heart to Hertfordshire at once, my friend. I would not have you carry such disappointments to your grave."

Bingley had stomped across the length of the room, executing a rather accurate impersonation of the very man who had come to call.

"First, you must tell me why, Darcy," Bingley had demanded, pulling out a chair to face Darcy after pouring them both a heavy measure of port. "Start at the beginning."

And he had. He had told him everything. And in telling Bingley everything, Darcy found that he had soon told him _everything_.

After much pacing, many proclamations of equal parts astonishment and disbelief, and more than a few brotherly pats on the shoulder—the two men had returned to their chairs, exhausted, and shared the last of the night's port by the fire.

"I must leave town soon, Bingley," Darcy had admitted hesitantly. "I cannot be here when the story finds its way into the papers, for Georgiana's sake. I know it cannot be long."

"Where will you go?" Bingley had inquired, eyes wide with concern. It had bewildered Darcy at the time. To think that Bingley—a man whom he had so selfishly, carelessly wounded, perhaps irrevocably—was now concerned only for him… He was properly humbled indeed.

"I have some smaller properties where I can remain for the time being," Darcy had explained. "The whole business cannot possibly be concluded for several more months. A sixmonth, at the very least. In the meantime, I mean to bring some of the senior staff from Pemberley to the house in town. I should like them to remain with the family. Perhaps they will accompany Georgiana when she marries, or remain with me in Scotland."

 _This_ declaration had been delivered very decidedly. Very elegantly. Very properly.

It had made him nauseous.

"Scotland!" Bingley had exclaimed, "I see no reason for you to throw over bonny England for Scotland just yet, my friend. And if you are to… to work things out, would it not be best if you were to remain nearer to town?"

He could not but agree with Bingley's surprisingly astute assessment, but the gentleman's next pronouncement had taken the very breath from his lungs.

"Why, you must come to Netherfield!"

But he did not _want_ to go to Netherfield.

They had continued in this manner for some time. One gentleman asserting that Netherfield was the best, nay _only_ option available, while the other defended his position that Netherfield was the _last place on earth_ he could possibly be.

Darcy had carried the day in the end, as he usually did—but a letter from Miss Jane Bennet soon changed everything.

Since his _tête-à-tête_ with Bingley, the gentleman had developed something of a stronger constitution when it came to his sisters—Miss Bingley in particular. With the future of her pin money hanging in the balance, Bingley's most meddlesome sister had written to Miss Bennet to inform _her particular friend_ of their _decided plans_ to return to the neighborhood _for all the foreseeable future_.

When Miss Bennet's reply finally arrived to the townhouse on Upper Seymour Street—Bingley had read it himself.

However, it was not only Bingley who would benefit from Miss Bingley's coerced correspondence with the eldest Miss Bennet, but Darcy as well. The following evening, Bingley had laid his plans before him—in typical Bingley fashion.

"Miss Bennet writes that her Aunt Gardiner, you will remember that she lives at Gracechurch street where their uncle runs some of the larger warehouses, is expecting a child—the third, I believe. Or perhaps the fourth? I believe there are some girls, but there is a son called after the father—his name escapes me at present. Elliot? Edward? I am sure it begins with an _E_ , and yet it seems I would remember if he were called Elliot, as that is the name of my own brother by marriage, so I suppose it must be Edward. I cannot think of any others with _E_ s just now. The eldest girl, I know, is very fond of Miss Bennet and Jane—Miss Bennet, I mean, looks to her care almost as another sister. She is truly an angel, Darcy."

"Yes, you have assured me of her saintly virtues many times," Darcy had laughed, filling his friend's glass. "Are we to ride to Gracechurch Street this minute and congratulate the lady ourselves?"

"Don't you see, Darcy? This is the answer to all of our problems!"

Darcy had stared at his friend with some concern. Had Bingley gone entirely distracted? It would still be a week before the staff at Netherfield had prepared the house for his arrival, and though Bingley had been ostensibly irritated by the delay, it could not be helped at present. His steward had given up his position in order to care for some ill relation at just the moment Bingley required a quick and orderly hand to arrange for his return—not to mention the fall harvest. Mr. Young's leave taking could not have happened at a worse time for the fledgeling lessee, as the estate's current owner—a kindly old gentleman Darcy believed to be called Morris—had passed on to his reward some weeks earlier. As it was, the death of Mr. Morris and the departure of his steward—along with Bingley's near-desertion of the property last November—had left many of Netherfield's servants in doubt of their futures. As a result, his staff was increasingly stretched thin, as those which had not quit the property entirely were now filling the jobs of two or even three servants. However, Darcy knew that the bulk of his friend's present worries did not fall on the management of Netherfield—but upon his reception there. The anticipation of his reunion with Miss Bennet weighed heavily on the man, and Darcy could not fault him for feeling so. One thing was certain—when Bingley returned to Hertfordshire, he would be in the thick of it. This might very well be the making of him.

"I apologize for not following, Bingley," Darcy replied with a bemused smile and a tilt of his head, "but while I do wish all of Gracechurch Street happy, perhaps you might explain again why the third—or fourth—child of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner might prove an answer to any of our concerns."

"Oh," Bingley mouthed. His brow had furrowed slightly as he mentally ticked through the contents of Miss Bennet's letter which he had considered of most interest to his friend. "Mayhap I have forgotten something."

"Mayhap you have," Darcy had agreed, struggling to keep the grin which threatened to spread across his face somewhat in check. It would not do for Bingley to think he was laughing at his exuberance when he had been the very architect of his earlier distress. "I am sure it will occur to you upon your return to your Miss Bennet."

"But that is the very thing I came to tell you!" Bingley brightened. "You shall come to Netherfield after all!"

"Bingley," Darcy grumbled, a hint of warning in his tone. "We have already discussed—You know why I cannot possibly accompany you to Hertfordshire."

"Precisely!" Bingley had practically sputtered in exasperation. "Darcy, that is what I am trying to say! Miss Elizabeth will not _be_ in Hertfordshire! Miss Bennet has written to Caroline that her sister means to attend her aunt in _town_. Even now they are touring the northern country together. Miss Elizabeth Bennet will not likely return to Longbourn until the spring."

Darcy had closed his eyes in an effort to numb the feelings of half anguish, half relief which raged within him as he allowed Bingley's words to sink in. _He would not see her._ Elizabeth Bennet would soon be safely tucked away in the care of her Gracechurch Street relations, miles and miles from Hertfordshire. And so he _could_ go to Netherfield—which he now admitted he had longed to do. Darcy might not have been the most intelligent man in the world, but he was astute enough to realize when he was in very great need of a friend.

When he had felt the steady pressure of Bingley's hand on his shoulder, Darcy had known exactly what he would do. Although his kind-hearted friend might not have readily agreed with _every_ part of the arrangement Darcy had offered—and he certainly had fought him on plenty—Darcy had won the day once again. He was determined to be of real use to Bingley, as Bingley had been to him. Though Fitzwilliam Darcy may no longer lay claim to the title of gentleman, he certainly meant to behave as one—and his only hope was that in doing so, he might become worthy of the respect he had so often been granted without cause or explanation.

With a final tap of his boots and a shake of his jacket, Darcy raised himself from his seat at the small cottage table and reached for the satchel which held his morning meal. The sun was up, and it was time his day began.

 **xxx**

The midday sun was well overhead by the time Darcy had occasion to reach for his satchel again.

After he had finished his meal, he made his way to a small row of trees lining the road ahead. The apples were small but near ripe, and when he had gathered enough to complement his mid-morning meals for the remainder of the week, he celebrated his foresight by partaking of a second. Brushing the dust from his legs, he held out an apple to his mare to quicken her pace.

"Come now, Fair Rosalind," he called to the bay. "It will be much easier to remove this post with your help."

When the requisite ropes had been properly knotted and tied, Darcy stepped back to admire the result of his labours. He had cleared all but the final rotten fence post, and he was ready to finish the task and set his mind to another.

Though the work was hard, it also soothed him. Despite the fact that his role in society had never necessitated any particular physical effort on his part, he was a country gentleman through and through. He had never been without interest or inclination for the work of his field hands, tenant farmers, or stewards, and he was now rather gratified that the very behaviour which had led to his being viewed as something of a curiosity amongst his ilk—albeit a rich one—had somewhat prepared him for his new life.

"The gentleman farmer indeed," he murmured to himself, rolling up his shirtsleeves to bare his browned arms to the sun. "If only I had known the effect of a good day's work on the mercenary mamas of the _ton_!" He offered Rosalind a wry smile and a pat of his hand. "Yes, I might have done well to escort you to Almack's years ago, my girl. No one could accuse either of us of being particularly good partners for conversation, but I must say, Lady Rosalind, you already make for much better company than I ever encountered there."

Rosalind snorted in what Darcy assumed was a show of appreciation for such a fine compliment and then searched his hand for an apple. When she found nothing, she looked on.

He shook his head with a laugh. "Aye, but you are a Lady!"

While exchanging such lively banter with a horse might have made another man worry he was fit for Bedlam, Darcy had no such suppositions. He had had his fill of society, and the feelings he had related to Rosalind were no prevarication. He _did_ rather prefer her company to most of that of the town set. At least she knew how to be quiet. She seemed happy enough in his company, enjoyed taking the air on a good summer day, and there was a mellow thoughtfulness to her eyes that Darcy had rarely encountered in even the most well-bred drawing rooms. He would rather give a guinea for _her_ thoughts than those of any society darling found twirling across a ballroom—he always knew what _they_ were thinking. He studied Rosalind for a moment—lost in his own admittedly frivolous contemplations.

Rosalind thought of apples.

Darcy thought of the man he had been near a year ago, when he had ridden over the very ridge which now shaped his horizon. He had looked down from its peak and surveyed the land where he now stood—calculating, measuring, balancing what he thought must have been every worthwhile consideration. He wondered what _that_ Darcy would think if he had peered down upon himself now and observed the sight he now presented. The thought thoroughly amused him—for he knew exactly what he would think of himself—and he smiled for the second time that day. It was practically worth celebrating with another apple.

If only Miss Elizabeth Bennet could see him now! What joy it would give her to see him brought so low. He—the unfeeling beast who had supposedly refused to discharge his own father's will, so grievously wounding the poor, pitiable, _damned charismatic bounder_ Mr. Wickham, turned his nose at her society, slighted her every relation, and destroyed all her dearest sister's hopes—all while declaring _her_ less than tolerable! How she would upbraid him with that ruthless wit he abhorred and loved so well. It was almost worth a trip to Gracechurch Street to see the look upon her face. _Mr. Darcy—his boots six inches deep in mud!_

Rosalind saw Miss Bennet.

Darcy returned to his work. When he judged the ropes sufficiently tight, he tapped Rosalind to encourage her forward. Five short feet and the fencepost would be free. He mopped his wet face with a sleeve and ran a free hand through his disheveled locks to force them where they collected on his brow. It had been a long morning, but it was nearly over.

Darcy was not alone in thinking that it had been a long morning. In fact, Rosalind quite agreed. Unfortunately, _she_ was not aware that it was 'nearly over' and much preferred that it were over now.

Rosalind knew the man had more apples in that sack.

She just knew it.

When the irritable plough-horse kicked back a leg, her dance partner was caught unawares. As he scrambled to right himself, Rosalind hitched to the left in search of her quarry. She nosed into him, nudging her head into his chest in procession of what was now a quite a frantic quest for apples.

He was on the ground before he even knew he was falling.

Darcy groaned upwards from the sludge where Rosalind had deposited him, raising his knees to rest his heels on the ground as he watched the mare devour her bounty. "Women," he chided. "You're all the same."

He looked down to examine his clothing, raising his arms into the air in consternation when he did not like what he found. A fresh slog of mud had coated Darcy's already soiled shirtsleeves and breeches. He would need a long wash after this. Perhaps even a swim in the small pond beyond the treeline. With a huff, he wiped the gathering clumps of mud from his forearms. He was certainly no stranger to hard work, but he had never been so covered in muck in his life. Darcy pulled himself to his feet as he began to reconsider his previous position regarding the moral superiority of The Gentleman Farmer.

"Rosalind!" Darcy growled, leaning a shoulder against her. "Move!"

And move she did.

Unfortunately for Darcy, it was at that moment he caught sight of what Rosalind had glimpsed long ago—a silhouette in sprigged muslin and a light blue bonnet had made its way steadily around the curve of the ridge while Darcy had been—otherwise engaged. The sun in her eyes, the lady raised a gloved hand to shade her view. A single loose chestnut curl fluttered in the wind. As he squinted into the distance, he thought he could make out the shape of a single brow rising in an elegant display of comprehension.

 _No._

In a split-second, everything in Darcy willed him to run—though his feet were somewhat undecided on which direction they should take, either towards the lady or away. In the end, he stood as still as a stone, hoping against hope that his eyes betrayed him or that he had gone mad after all. The shape moved towards him—slowly.

 _No._

This could not be happening. It was impossible. He clenched his eyes shut, hoping to see anything— _anyone_ other than who he knew he would find when he opened them.

 _Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Napoleon. The devil himself would be welcome._

A sudden chill cut through the warm summer air as a familiar voice called out across the lane.

"Mr. Darcy!"

Darcy's thoughts spun and reeled while his heart attempted to leap from his chest in a desperate act of self-preservation. He was not dreaming. He was not mad. He was _cursed._ He had offended a powerful mystic. He had disregarded some dreadful omen.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Darcy straightened himself as steadily as he could manage. He might have laughed again, so raw were his wits—but he did not. Instead, he swallowed every word he wished to say to her, clenched his jaw, and offered a bow as dignified as he was able in soiled shirtsleeves.

"Miss Bennet."


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

"Awake, _arise or be for ever fall'n."  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I –_

After many long months of unequalled despair, anguish, and hardship, Darcy could not deny himself the simple joy of beholding her. Elizabeth Bennet was standing before him, and even his haste to devour every detail of her sun-kissed countenance could not distract him from the truth that none of his memories did the lady half the justice she deserved. She was here. She was real. She was breathtaking.

He had hoped, when he had the time or presence of mind to hope at all, that distance, time, or at the very least, the complete loss of all his prospects, would serve to curtail his feelings for her. Now—as he tried and failed to ease the tightening in his chest, slow the quickening of his pulse, or settle the diving, rolling pitch which swelled in his abdomen—he knew, without a doubt, that such a thing could never be possible. He was intoxicated by the very sight of her.

His fingers twitched in eager anticipation, urging him to reach out to her. His person was quickly proving to be as disloyal and incorrigible in her presence as his mind had already revealed itself to be in her absence. Perhaps he had made a terrible mistake in allowing his thoughts to linger on her, time and time again, in the months since he had given up any hope of forgetting her. He had done so only when he was secure in the knowledge that he would never see her again. But now, she was here—the culmination of a thousand dreams and as many nightmares. The only woman he had ever loved. The only woman to ever refuse him anything.

She was here, standing before him, close enough to touch.

Darcy took no notice of the way her fingers trembled as they clutched the basket she carried in her hands, as he was lost in the consideration of a pair of dark hazel eyes, made brighter by some mysterious combination of country air, curiosity, and consternation. He thought nothing of the moment her breath hitched in her chest so forcefully that she bit the side of her cheek to keep from calling out, for he was meditating on the very fine way that the summer sun illuminated the hidden bands of gold which adorned her chestnut curls. However, the slight flush of her luminous, soft skin—he did notice. And it rendered him weak in the knees. If he had thought himself in real danger the last time he had come to Hertfordshire, this time he knew it without a doubt.

"Miss Bennet."

Despite his best efforts, the words fell from his lips in a manner which expressed his shock at seeing her far more than he would have liked. However, if the look in her eyes was any indication, he consoled himself with the knowledge that Miss Elizabeth Bennet seemed to be entertaining very similar thoughts.

"Mr. Darcy," she repeated in softer tones. It was not a greeting this time, but an observation. He almost wondered if she were attempting to verify that he was not some unnatural figment of her imagination. Once again, his sentiments echoed hers—though it had not taken him long to determine that if she were any dream of _his_ , they would certainly be passing the time in a more satisfying manner. No, judging by the stunned, grievous expression which played upon the lady's fine countenance, _this_ Elizabeth Bennet was all too genuine.

But what was she doing _here_? He could hardly ask her—after all, this was her home shire, not his, or at least it had not been until very recently. She had obviously not expected to encounter him on the road towards Meryton—hardly surprising as he had made no argument against his perceived disdain for the place—but he could not help but feel as though some providence had brought her before him. Whether the Fates still meant to spurn him, he could not know.

He swallowed as she stepped closer, absentmindedly brushing the sides of his hips with his hands. He could not tear his eyes from hers if he had tried and so he made no attempt to do so.

Moving under the shade of the tree beside him, she was eventually forced to tilt her chin upwards to hold his gaze. Though a familiar heat welled within him at the sight of her so charmingly appointed, he pushed it aside and schooled his features. When he felt that a long enough moment had passed for either—if not both—to gather their composure, he did her the service of repeating her greeting.

"Miss Bennet."

The lady tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet and pursed her lips as if she weighed the merits of her intended response. A rich contrariety of emotions overwhelmed him as he encountered the very curiosity which had first attracted his notice and long since been committed to memory—the single, subtle twitch of a finely arched brow. He longed to decipher the mysteries she concealed beneath such a gesture. Though he was now well-appraised of the fact that he could not read her countenance as well as he wished, her expression in this instance seemed to signify a sense of bewildered amusement rather than agitation.

While Darcy waged a futile inner battle to uncover any possible or potential topic for conversation with the young woman standing before him, the object of his distraction began to recover from her own surprise at their meeting.

"You have returned to Netherfield," she observed.

"I have," he stammered uncomfortably. "I—I understood you to be in town."

"Yes," she blinked, her eyes suddenly taking an eager interest in anything but him. "I had planned it so myself. I have only just returned to—that is to say, my mother…" she trailed off. Darcy averted his own eyes as she bit down on her lip. After a brief pause, Elizabeth cleared her throat and offered him the most honest reply she could, given the circumstances. "I was needed at home, sir."

He nodded his understanding and grasped for an appropriate response. It was clear that _some_ explanation was necessary. "Miss Bennet, you must know that I would not have… If I had any indication that you were to return from town so soon—"

"Pray, do not make yourself uneasy, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth interrupted with a tight smile. "Though it is true that I had not expected to greet you on the road today, it does not follow that such a meeting must be unwelcome. I… I apologise if my sudden appearance startled you, sir."

Elizabeth offered a crisp nod in the direction of Darcy's person and he was stricken by an immediate, exceedingly sharp awareness of his state of dress—or rather _undress_.

Elizabeth's unexpected appearance had left little space in his thoughts for any other consideration, and he was ashamed to realise that he had entirely forgotten the disaster with Rosalind that had befallen him only a moments before—A deuced humiliating fiasco which had left what little proper clothing he retained smeared with a thick layer of mud and grime. His eyes followed her downward path—suddenly feeling all of the awkwardness which his misplaced coat, bared arms, and disheveled appearance readily supplied.

"So you see, Mr. Darcy," she teased. "It appears you have me at less of a disadvantage than I might have anticipated, even if you _had_ been aware of my return to Longbourn."

Darcy looked to his hands as if they held the answers he sought. _What must she think of him!_ he chastised himself. His brow furrowed as he considered all of the miserable implications of his present state.

Elizabeth Bennet's thoughts were much more agreeably engaged. Despite Mr. Darcy's being undeniably flush in the pockets, she had to admit that the gentleman presented quite the picture when playing the bobbish Country Harry. The arch of her brow rose ever higher as she appraised his every feature. The last time that she had had occasion to do so was the night before her leaving Pemberley, when she bid his portrait a silent farewell and stole into his library for a final time. He was even more handsome than she remembered.

Secretly, she hoped that he might have another oil completed before the great house passed to the next generation of Darcys. As she regarded him now—rumpled, fatigued, and slick with mud—she realised that the current portrait did him no justice. In truth, she would much rather see him painted like _this_.

Regrettably, as Darcy remained lost in his self-recriminations, the gentleman took no notice of her attentions.

Though he had _appeared_ every part the gentleman before her in their last meeting, he had repulsed her with his abominable behaviour. He would not repeat the offence for a second time—regardless of his decidedly _un_ gentlemanly, bedraggled state. He would find a way to show her that he had attended to her valid reproaches of his character. Though he had likely lost her goodwill forever—if he had ever laid any claim to it—he would not have her made uncomfortable once more by his manners. After all, there was little else he could do for her now but make some small effort to temper her disdain.

"Yes, of course," he heard himself sputter. "I must—" he grasped. "Pardon me, Miss Bennet. Your family is in good health?"

His eyes made a careful study of hers as they removed from his person and sprang to attention.

"Yes!" she rasped, drawing in a sharp breath—a touch of colour flushing her cheeks. "Yes, sir. I believe they are very well, though they were not at home when I returned from town." She swallowed and attempted to focus her attention on the feeling of the reed basket scraping her fingertips. "They have gone to call on our relations in Meryton, and so, though I have not yet seen them for myself, I have no reason to think them anything but well. I thank you."

Elizabeth caught a brief spark in the gentleman's eye as she stammered her way through her thoughtless reply. Had Mr. Darcy supposed the direction of her thoughts _had_ tended? Her colour deepened, and this time—he did suppose. An unfamiliar, warm feeling began to creep up her spine.

"And how long have you been in this part of the country?" she rushed, suddenly desirous of more mundane conversation.

"Some weeks now," he replied in a steady voice, though his eyes betrayed his growing interest. A ladylike cough served as the cover for her escape and she soon fixed her gaze upon her skirts.

Elizabeth balked. _Some weeks!_ And yet she had heard nothing of his presence here! It seemed dear Jane would have much to explain indeed! She drew in a deep breath and returned her attention to his face, praying that she appeared more at ease than she felt. How was one to make polite conversation with a man they have wronged, refused, and censured!

"You will spend the remainder of the summer at Netherfield then?"

"Well, yes," Darcy replied uneasily. "I was intending to spend much of the summer here." His phrasing was not lost on Elizabeth. He _had_ been intending to stay, but was no longer? However, all of her budding concerns related to his _most recently_ confounding words were pushed aside by those that followed soon after. "Though I am not staying at Netherfield precisely," he added slowly, as if he expected her to glean something more from his words than he was saying. "I have taken up the cottage there, just beyond the bend in the road."

Darcy made a vague gesture in the direction of the cottage but he knew such assistance was unnecessary. Surely Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the most accomplished walker in all of England, would know where to locate a cottage less than two miles from her door.

He was correct. Elizabeth's gaze did not follow in the direction he indicated, but widened in shock. A fine mosaic of emotions called out to him—demanding answers. No, it appeared this information would _not_ suffice, for it supplied the lady with a seemingly endless supply of questions. Though she was well-mannered enough to keep most of them to herself, he read them on her countenance. Perhaps he was gaining some insight into the many expressions of Miss Elizabeth Bennet after all.

"Mr. Young's cottage?" she inquired with all politeness. "Do you mean Old Mr. Morris' steward?"

He nodded his confirmation. "Yes, the very same."

"You are to stay at Mr. Young's cottage, but not at Netherfield?" she pressed further, brushing the boundaries of her own good behaviour.

Unfortunately, the gentleman's countenance gave nothing away, and his voice remained as cool as stone.

"So it would seem."

Following his pronouncement, Darcy shifted to his right and took a few short steps to the stile where he had lain his coat. He suddenly felt very exposed.

As he slipped the garment over his damp, muddied shirt, he could not help but notice the way Elizabeth's eyes followed his movements. Believing her to be entirely indifferent to him, as the lady's own words had attested some months earlier—and indifference being the warmest feeling she might have attributed to him—his embarrassment grew by leaps and bounds.

What a muddle he had made of things! And now, having reached his lowest point, to be faced with her disapprobation was a torment he did not think he could endure.

It was not as though he had not imagined meeting her again, of course. In fact, he had given more room for such imaginings to grow than he was like to admit even to himself at present. However, never—in any of these fantastic scenarios—had he been forced to reveal to her how low he had fallen. He already knew he did not have her respect, and he had no hope of her esteem—but he did not need her pity. It was unconscionable. Was he to be made to watch as she realised her further good fortune in refusing him?

Still, he knew he must tell her something of his situation, for even if the townspeople of Meryton still remained in ignorance of his disgrace, he knew it could not be for long. But he could not say that. Not to her. Not entirely.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth made every attempt to school her features as she watched Darcy pull his fine frock coat over the shirt which still clung to his sinewy chest. Less than five minutes in the gentleman's presence, and she felt positively lightheaded from vexation. If the irritation she felt at the lack of substantive information regarding this wholly unexpected turn of events could be readily appraised by the turn of her countenance, it was nothing to the roar of confusion, fascination, and frustration she felt within. Did he think so little of her as not to offer her _any_ explanation of his presence here? Was she to be made to watch as he made his way in her world, wholly indifferent to her presence?

 _Must everything be a battle with him?_

Elizabeth adopted a casual air, hoping rather than believing such a tack would induce the gentleman to any further disclosure of his reasons for returning to the neighbourhood. By his own admission, he had not come to renew his addresses to her—far from it!

Mr. Darcy had said himself that he thought her in town and must have meant to avoid her company entirely. It was a sentiment she could not fault him for holding after she had abused him so abominably to his face. Still, she was surprised to find that she felt the loss of the gentleman's good opinion more keenly than she might have otherwise thought. Elizabeth puzzled over the prospect. Perhaps the reading of a man's books induced one to form some affinity for his character? She hardly knew.

And to find that he had returned to Hertfordshire only to remove himself from the comforts of Netherfield Hall in favour of a _steward's cottage_? How violently Miss Bingley's machinations must have turned to send a gentleman of such stature to a ramshackle cottage in a country town of no consequence! And why had he not returned to Pemberley? Though her inquisitive nature demanded answers, her gentle breeding ruled the day. It was not like her to dissemble, but when she spoke, her words were delivered with all the grace and bravado of a debutante on the stage.

"I must own that I was not aware of any longstanding friendship between yourself and Mr. Young, Mr. Darcy," she smiled up at him. "If I had been, I might have stolen fewer berries from his brush. I will warn you that I am no great favourite of his."

"Are you not?" Darcy turned to face her with a bemused smile, glad to be abandoning the task of fixing his buttons with wet fingers. Let his coat hang open, it was hardly as though she had a thought to spare for him. "I find that hard to believe, Miss Bennet."

In fact, Darcy found it hard to believe that anyone acquainted with the lady before him would not consider her the most charming, incredible, and utterly enchanting creature in all the world—but that was beside the point at present and so he said nothing.

"I cannot imagine that is true, Mr. Darcy," she replied playfully. "But I thank you for the compliment all the same. Unfortunately, I do not believe that Mr. Young is of a mind to overlook my transgressions. He took to calling me Black Bennet as a child and has yet to relinquish the moniker, as far as I am aware."

She was rambling, she knew, but there was little else she could do to settle the riotous lurching of her insides—save running for the trees, of course. And, as Mr. Darcy was uncommonly tall, she thought the chance of outpacing him highly unlikely. No, she would have to abscond with her words. It was the only way.

"And were you prosecuted for your crimes?" the gentleman asked, his eyes bright and his lips twisting upwards in a show of amusement.

"Most assuredly so, sir!" Elizabeth scolded. "I am ashamed to say that my good parents were often called upon to encourage _some_ method of restitution or other in exchange for my flights of wilful disobedience. I have embroidered more cushions, weeded more rose gardens, and set more preserves than could ever be accounted for, Mr. Darcy. Many of them at the behest of your Mr. Young."

"Weeds and jams, Miss Bennet?" Darcy inquired with a quirk of his brow. He could not help but be drawn in by her easy manners, no matter the cost to himself.

"Yes!" Elizabeth taunted, giving herself over to the spirited banter. The continuation of her tale was delivered in a conspiratorial tone Darcy found most pleasing.

"As my father often reaped the rewards of Black Bennet's bounty, I must confess that he often encouraged me to seek my penance outdoors." She sighed dramatically. "It is a dreadful shame that I never did become a more competent seamstress, but I could never remain still long enough to practice my stitches. I ended with bloodied pillows more often than not. Mama was beside herself."

"And were you sensible to the object of such a lesson?" Darcy wondered aloud, the uncharacteristic lightness of his voice surprising him.

"I maintain that I have no regrets as to my behaviour at the time," Elizabeth declared with aplomb. "The berries here are of the finest quality in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Young has a far greater number than he could ever do with himself."

Darcy chuckled, a sly smile creeping across his features in a manner Elizabeth found most pleasing. "I begin to understand the reason your parents thought you in need of some discipline, Miss Elizabeth."

Against all her earlier inclinations, Elizabeth forgot herself entirely. "I do not mean to sound as though I speak ill of the man or the method of my punishment, sir!" she laughed. "I only mean to explain that Mr. Young might have considered the _service_ I provided him before condemning a young girl to a life of piracy."

"Yes, I am sure you were quite justified," Darcy said earnestly as he took a step in her direction. Elizabeth's eyes sparked with captive laughter and he felt his own gaze grow soft as it rested upon her. He cleared his throat. "Should I worry for the harvest then, Miss Bennet? Or have you had your fill of pricked fingers, pulling weeds, and heating kettles?"

Darcy watched with delight as her brow raised in what he found a particularly impish manner. She certainly did not disappoint.

"I am sorry to say that I remain quite fond of summer berries, sir," Elizabeth teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.

It took every ounce of Darcy's resolve not to pull the lady into his arms and kiss her soundly. She had certainly rattled him—though perhaps not in the way she wished. No, _certainly_ not in the way she wished. An image of Elizabeth Bennet, cloaked in moonlight as she crept through the brush outside his door appeared before him. What he would not give to encounter such a sight! In fact, he made a mental note to plant more berries as soon as may be. Just in case.

"Do you mean to warn me off the place, Miss Bennet?" Darcy cajoled in what he thought a miserable attempt at flirtation. He was surprised then, when his aim acquired its object. Elizabeth's eyes locked on his, and when she spoke, there was a sincerity in her tone that he would not take for granted.

"Not at all, Mr. Darcy. I assure you."

Darcy and Elizabeth regarded one another for a quiet moment, their shared gaze inducing a rush of disorienting feelings in both. When Darcy began to feel his incompetence neared the verge of betraying him, he took the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

"As to your concerns regarding my friendship with Mr. Young, I am sorry to say that I have not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance," he explained. "Mr. Young's elder brother was taken ill and he has removed to Plymouth to care for him. It appears that you will be pillaging _my_ stores now, Captain Bennet."

Elizabeth stared in wide-eyed astonishment, their earlier easy banter all but forgotten. Exactly how long did Mr. Darcy mean to stay?

"Rest assured that you may plunder as much as you wish," he continued, insensible of her rising concern. "I would be glad of your services and I have no desire to see your Jolly Roger sailing in my direction."

Darcy's uncommon jest—which may have even been well-met under different circumstances—could not overcome the rush of dread which overtook Elizabeth's every conscious thought as the implication of his words sunk in.

"Do you mean that you will take up the place?"

Darcy had no wish to dissemble. Against his better judgement, he was enjoying this—enjoying her smiles and amiable conversation. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had held a more agreeable exchange, even if it were laced with concern and innuendo.

"Yes, I do."

And there it was. Though she attempted to conceal her confusion by taking an eager interest in Rosalind's slow progression across the tall grasses, Elizabeth quite visibly reeled. With the smile in his eyes he reserved only for Elizabeth Bennet, he took pity on her and expanded upon his admittedly shocking, abbreviated response. Tare an' hounds, but it felt good to tease her!

"In a manner of speaking. Mr. Young can hardly oversee Netherfield from the docks of Plymouth. And with Mr. Morris passed on and his heir not yet arrived to the neighbourhood, Bingley requires some assistance with the day to day management of the estate and its grounds until such a time as Mr. Morris' heir arrives. Fortunately, I have some… experience in these matters and I was made available."

"But surely you would be more comfortable at Netherfield, sir?" she asked before immediately withdrawing the question. "I offer my apologies, Mr. Darcy. It was not my intention to pry."

"Not at all, Miss Bennet," he replied, brushing some of the drying mud from his coat. "I find the steward's cottage suits me very well indeed. I hope you will not think me… I hope you will understand when I say that I have little time for society at present."

Elizabeth's face clouded over as the pair exchanged a rather awkward glance. For a few moments, it had felt as though none of it—the assembly in Meryton, her meeting Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy's interference, the events of Hunsford, his letter—had happened at all. The experience put Elizabeth in mind of something that Jane had once said—was _this_ what it might have been like if she and Mr. Darcy had met as common and indifferent acquaintances?

"Of course." _I would not think such things of you_ , she wanted to say. But, of course, she could not. All of those events _had_ come to pass, and so she resolved to make an effort to be more mindful of her manners in his company henceforth. The man had once expressed a regard for her that she had given him more than enough reasons to regret. At the very least, the gentleman was deserving of a compliment.

"I am sure Mr. Bingley will appreciate your efforts here, Mr. Darcy. I know that Netherfield is nothing to Pemberley, but if you can assist your friend in fashioning something even half so grand as what I have encountered in Derbyshire, it will quickly be the envy of the county, sir. Mr. Bingley may want to secure the terms of his lease rather sooner than later—If he means to stay in the neighbourhood, that is."

Elizabeth felt the air around her grow still as Mr. Darcy's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"You have seen Pemberley?" he frowned.

"Oh!" _Oh, no._ "Yes, of course," she replied, mentally retracing her steps. "I should have mentioned… I have only just returned from a tour of some of the northern counties with my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner."

His thoughts seemed to take him elsewhere for a moment, and so Elizabeth turned her attention to the field before her, feeling all the anxiety of their meeting for the first time. After a full fortnight at Pemberley spent waiting, wondering, and worrying each day that Mr. Darcy might appear—to return to Longbourn and almost immediately encounter the very man himself, half-dressed and spattered with mud in a sea of country wildflowers! And to _laugh_ with him! It was too ridiculous. Who would ever believe such a thing? Even dear sweet Jane was like to accuse her of telling Canterbury Tales.

Darcy swallowed the panic rising in his throat and attempted the bearings of a calmer man.

"You visited Pemberley during this tour? In Derbyshire?"

Elizabeth took her time responding. She had the distinct impression that she and Mr. Darcy were very near to the moment they would abandon all pretence of amiable conversation in favour of the more familiar acerbity which had marked many of their previous exchanges. When she returned her attention to the gentleman she felt as though he had already been studying her for some time. Gathering her strength, she made an attempt to disarm him.

"Do you know of another?"

Elizabeth frowned. Darcy was unmoved and suddenly as formidable as ever. She watched as the gentleman drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. The effect was somewhat marred by the informality of his dress and the remaining spots of grime staining his noble features. She might have laughed, were it not for the fact that his attitude, however blemished, accomplished its purpose all the same.

Darcy took a slow step forward. When he replied, his voice stuck tight to his throat.

"I do not."

Elizabeth followed her first impulse, which was to swallow and look away, her eyes narrowing in an involuntary display of frustration. Did he mean to _intimidate_ her? Was the man incapable of a single _ordinary_ conversation? Must he always be so _contrary_?

Crossing her arms, she remained silent.

The sudden movement of an errant curl made Elizabeth acutely aware of how far Mr. Darcy's steps had carried him. He was now close enough to her that she could feel his warm breath in her hair.

"Miss Bennet?"

"Yes," she delivered on a sharp exhale. "I have come from Derbyshire."

"So, you have been to Pemberley," Darcy repeated in a softer tone. From his shadow, Elizabeth witnessed the moment he must have realised for himself how near to her he now stood. With a step backwards, Darcy began to shift his weight uncomfortably between his feet. The gentleman cleared his throat.

"How… Excuse me, Miss Bennet. How did you find it?"

"Pemberley?" A laugh escaped her—perhaps a bit more breathlessly that usual—though she remained glad of the distraction such involuntary gaiety provided. "In the usual manner, I expect."

"Miss Bennet." Though he frowned at her taunt, Elizabeth read a much different expression in the slight wrinkling of his eyes.

Darcy was prepared to wait, and he fixed his gaze upon her again in eager anticipation of her response.

"Very well, sir," she relented with a warm smile. "Very well indeed."

"You approved of it then, of Pemberley?"

"Of Pemberley? Yes, of course. I have never seen a place more happily situated," Elizabeth answered in all cheerful honesty. When the glint in his eye pierced hers, she blushed crimson and moderated her tone. "Though I cannot imagine ever making the acquaintance of one who would say otherwise."

Visibly pleased, Darcy's entire countenance warmed in response to such easy praise.

"But your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning."

His eyes held hers until a strange sensation tickled low in Elizabeth's belly. Suddenly alarmed without knowing the reason, she sought a return to their conversation.

"Do you plan to visit with Lady Graham before the harvest begins?"

"Lady Graham?" Darcy asked, his brow pinched. The name was unfamiliar to him, but Elizabeth seemed assured that he would know the lady. He searched his memory, but remained in ignorance of any connection.

"Yes, Lady Graham," Elizabeth continued steadily, hoping her relationship with the lady would not induce him to anger. She remained, as ever, in ignorance of their precise connection—and though worries over any improper arrangement between the two were no longer _chief_ amongst her thoughts, she had to allow that it was still a possibility. However, it was too late to back out now. She had chosen her path and she meant to follow it. "She was very amiable. We mean to keep up a correspondence now that I am returned home. I liked her very well indeed."

"I see," grumbled Darcy—though he did not see.

With a reminder to herself that she was by no means daunted by the task of addressing Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth pressed on.

"Lady Graham was kind enough to show us some of the sights as well. I found the ruins at the northern edge of the property most enlightening. I have only encountered its equal in the pages of my father's books," she said aloud— _and yours_ , she kept to herself.

The first seeds of suspicion began to take root in Darcy's mind and his eyes narrowed into hardened steel as he began to take the lay of the land.

"Did Lady Graham mention the nature of her connection to me?"

A slight prickling at the back of Elizabeth's neck became the first sign of her unease. She was not blind to either the suspicious glint in his eye or the hint of accusation in his tone. Was he angry with _her_ for visiting his home so soon after her violent refusal of his hand, or Lady Graham for revealing the nature of _her connection_ to him? She coloured deeply, unsure of what he wished her to say. Surely he would not expect her to—

"No, sir. Not as such," she offered unsteadily.

Mr. Darcy seemed displeased.

Elizabeth's teeth sank into her cheek. So mutable were the gentleman's moods! Yet the day had already held so many surprises for her that she was rather glad of any predictability—and she certainly considered her bringing him to umbrage just that.

"I believe she did mention an acquaintance with your mother," she offered, hoping to tip the scales of his countenance back towards the amicable. She could not have known her error, and so she knew shock when the bitter tones of his incredulity reigned down upon her.

"My mother!"

Darcy clasped his hands together in agitation as he began to measure his steps along the side of the road. His gaze fixed on his Wellingtons as it was, he missed Elizabeth Bennet's quiet appraisal.

"Mr. Darcy, are you well?" she asked in half concern, half exasperation.

When it was clear that the gentleman was either not attending or did not mean to answer, Elizabeth cast up her hands in agitation. In need of her own reprieve from his company, she marched across the lane to the stile which had held Mr. Darcy's coat—but by the time she had pulled herself up the first rung, the very man was upon her.

"Might I inquire as to how you made the acquaintance of this _Lady Graham_ at Pemberley?" his voice commanded from somewhere behind her. Incensed, she turned herself about to face the lane and instead found herself facing _him_ —her raised height on the stile placing them nearly eye to eye.

"I assure you that our meeting was an accident, sir," she countered. She would not have him accusing her of some contrivance to gain either his or Lady Graham's attentions! "Mrs. Reynolds was leading us on a tour of the house, and I became separated from my party. When Lady Graham requested that we stay for refreshments, my aunt and uncle were happy to partake of her hospitality."

Some measure of _the lady's_ practiced deception upon Elizabeth now known to him, or so he assumed, Darcy was set aflame. Withdrawing from Elizabeth's perch, he wore down the grass before her with great enthusiasm.

"Her hospitality!" he roared.

"Yes, sir!" Elizabeth protested, suddenly offended on behalf of her friend. Regardless of any connection, _arrangement_ , or obligation to the gentleman may hold her friend under—Marian Graham was every bit the lady. "She was very gracious."

Elizabeth's cool demeanour only enraged him further. Darcy was not yet sure what Mr. Hadley was playing at, but he assumed the worst. What could he mean by involving Miss Elizabeth Bennet in his schemes? Had he not finished with him yet?

Mimicking Elizabeth's gesture from moments earlier, he threw his hands into the air in a grand show of his exasperation. "Gracious, she says? I am quite sure she was!" he scoffed. "After all, you agreed to a correspondence with the lady over tea! The lady must have been very _gracious_ indeed!"

Elizabeth was beginning to find Mr. Darcy quite vexing.

"No, sir. In fact, I did not. That is to say—my Aunt Gardiner and I came to know Lady Graham quite well when my uncle attended to some business near Manchester over a fortnight."

"Manchester! And you say your uncle left you unprotected _for over a fortnight_ in the company of Lady Graham?"

The look in Darcy's eyes was murder. If Mr. Hadley had placed a hand on Elizabeth Bennet—

"I would by no means call Pemberley unprotected, sir," the lady challenged from her roost upon the stile.

Upon her reply, the many frantic visions of Mr. Hadley skewered at the end of Darcy's foil, dragged through the streets, and tossed into the sea were quickly tucked away, though he would return to them later.

"Pemberley! You mean to say that you stayed all that time at Pemberley? In the company of Lady Graham?"

Two long strides brought him back to her eye level. Leaning back against the structure, she stretched herself taller.

"Yes, sir. I am sorry if my uncle's accepting Lady Graham's offer of hospitality offends you. In truth, I did not wish to visit the place _at all_ , but when the maid at Lambton assured us that you were from home and not expected to return, I saw little harm in allowing my relations to spend their holiday in the manner of their choosing. I could not have anticipated that Marian would have made us such an offer, nor that she would have become such a particular friend!"

"Marian!" Darcy bellowed. He stared at Elizabeth—his breathing ragged and anguish writ clear upon his countenance. The seconds which ticked by might have been days.

Instinctively, Elizabeth reached out and placed a light hand upon the gentleman's shoulder in the comforting gesture of a friend. She had gone too far, and she felt it.

"I apologise for offending you, sir. Such was not my intention."

Darcy's sentiments were engaged immediately. Raising his eyes to meet hers, he observed the very fine manner in which her features softened under his appreciative gaze. The effect was jarring and he realised his folly at once. He had been worse than a fool, and— _once again_ —he had behaved abominably towards her.

"Of course it was not," he acknowledged on a long exhale. "Eli—Miss Bennet. Please, allow me to make my apologies. I would not have you think that I am angry with you."

Elizabeth could hardly be entirely amused after such a perplexing display of emotion, but the extent of her curiosity and concern engaged her good humour nonetheless. She tilted her head, engaging in a study of Mr. Darcy's features as they tensed and relaxed before her.

"Are you not, sir?"

"No," he insisted, his eyes moving to rest on ground before her as she returned her hand to her own side. The words that followed would have been inaudible if not for his proximity. "No, Miss Bennet. Never."

While Elizabeth did not entertain a single doubt that the boot was on quite the other leg, she had to allow that this was a welcome prevarication coming from the man who had seen so much ill of her character. The barest hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her lips.

"It is only…" Mr. Darcy paused for a long moment as if he meant to collect his thoughts. When he continued, Elizabeth was surprised to find that she had been holding her breath while she awaited his response.

''It is a shock, Miss Bennet," he offered, his glance slowly sweeping up the length of her form in a manner she believed more indicative of a hesitancy to meet her gaze than an immodest/baudy appraisal of her person. When the tired eyes which met hers held no trace of the cold, proud, and taciturn gentleman she had come to know as Mr. Darcy—she knew her assumption had been correct. On the contrary, his whole countenance was touched with a vulnerability which shocked and captivated her. "You see, Miss Bennet… Pemberley… Pemberley is no longer my concern."

Elizabeth blinked a staccato—No, she did not see. What was she meant to see, precisely? Try as she might, the phrase "no longer his concern" held no meaning for her.

"No longer your concern?" she repeated dumbly. Mr. Darcy turned and moved a few steps away, but Elizabeth was gratified that he did not resume his pacing. She felt the dizzying bob and sway of the earth as it spun on its axis. As if of a like mind, the gentleman planted his feet wide on the ground.

Darcy cleared his throat.

"No."

They remained silent for only a moment. She was determined to try again.

"Then Lady Graham—"

"Is none of my concern," he delivered flatly.

Elizabeth sat upon the top step of the stile with an agitated huff of frustration. So Pemberley did not concern him? Lady Graham did not concern him? Elizabeth was certainly _concerned_ for them both if this is how the gentleman went about his business. And here he was, in _Hertfordshire_ , less than a mile from _her home_ , acting as though _she_ were the one being impractical! The words sprang from her lips before she could think to stop them.

"So you have no concerns of your own, Mr. Darcy? Your home, your guest, the observed _politesse_ of society? How remarkably changed you are since…" Elizabeth clamped her mouth shut to keep her final insult from escaping, but soon recommitted herself to the task at hand in what she considered a more civilised manner. "Yet _Mr. Bingley's fencepost_ concerns you?" She gestured crisply to the fallen beam on the ground before them for effect.

Unfortunately for Elizabeth, her outburst did not have the result she intended—but it had a result nonetheless. At the moment Elizabeth had choked back the words they both knew to be _"your proposal,"_ Darcy had turned to face her. In fewer than three long strides, Darcy and Elizabeth were once again face to face.

Having taking a seated position which no longer afforded her the advantage of height over the gentleman—a position she almost immediately regretted—Elizabeth found him unconscionably close. She raised her chin in the manner she knew provoked him.

Darcy clenched his jaw and leaned forward, bending over her in a manner he hoped would intimidate her. For good measure, he raised an arm to lean on the post beside her.

"Yes, Miss Bennet, it does," he hissed.

Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat at their proximity, for when he rested his weight on the post beside her she was very nearly in his arms. Still, she refused to be intimidated and her courage rose. She saw his wager for what it was and raised without thinking.

In what seemed to Darcy to be an excessively slow movement—she leaned forward.

Riding high on the crest of her boldness, Elizabeth was wholly unprepared for the feeling of panic which welled within her as Darcy—rather than backing down as she expected—acknowledged and accepted her silent challenge.

With a tilt of his head and a barely perceptible lift of his brow, Darcy sank further against the post and hovered above her. When he lowered his gaze to meet hers she felt as though she could make out every fleck of colour in his indigo eyes and count every delicate lash which framed them.

She froze.

When Darcy spoke again, his voice was low and gravelly and his quick breaths brushed her ear.

"Yes, Miss Bennet. At present _this fencepost_ concerns me greatly."

Against her will, her reason, and even her character, Elizabeth found herself… speechless.

In lieu of conversation, Elizabeth raised her second line of defence—she scowled.

Darcy imposed.

The point was acknowledged and she began to feel that he was intentionally provoking her. The thought only riled her further.

 _Insufferable, impossible, vexing man!_

Darcy watched with great amusement as Elizabeth's frustration grew. He fought back a smile and was nearly successful. If he thought about it—as he now did—he was quite enjoying his afternoon. Having missed the sensations her very proximity produced, drawing Elizabeth's ire ranked high on his list of occupations of late. Though he was aware— _well aware_ —that he was treading dangerous waters by even being in her presence, he could not deny himself the indulgence any more than he could stop himself from imagining what it would feel like to cross the few remaining inches between them and kiss her—if only he should just lean a little further down…

Elizabeth, barely sensible of the day of the week, licked her lips.

When she did so, Darcy's eyes widened and Elizabeth's sense returned with all the force of a steam locomotive. When she sprung from her seat upon the stile, Darcy stepped back to avoid the clashing of their heads.

As she smoothed her skirts, he busied himself by gathering up the basket which had fallen from the stile in her hasty departure.

"Thank you," she said in a voice she meant to sound confident. "But if you would excuse me, Mr. Darcy. I think it is time I returned to the house."

Darcy's small gold signet ring began to dance around his hand.

"Pray, El—Miss Bennet. You are not leaving?"

She could not be leaving!

"Mr. Darcy, I hardly think—"

"Miss Bennet, we are to be neighbours, are we not? Please, let us not part once again in anger. Could we not speak of something else?"

As she was quite decided that Mr. Darcy's words held no sway with her, Elizabeth was surprised to find that the silent plea in his eyes _did_. There was a sort of softness to him, or perhaps one she had not noticed before, that pulled at her heart strings—as she was sure they would do for _any_ other being, even one so contrary as Mr. Darcy—and so she was compelled to nod her approval.

Darcy relaxed.

Elizabeth tensed.

She shifted her weight uncomfortably and attempted to raise some, nay _any_ subject suitable for conversation with the man, but there seemed an embargo on every topic. Mr. Darcy was clearly either uncomfortable, exasperated, or annoyed by her presence, and she had no wish to press the matter of his coming to Hertfordshire any further. She had only just decided to turn back in the direction of Longbourn and claim a headache when he surprised by asking after Jane.

"Have you seen your sister since returning to Longbourn? The eldest Miss Bennet, I mean."

Elizabeth shook her head, unable to fathom any possible connection between Mr. Bingley's fencepost, Mr. Darcy's expressed lack of concern for all that was his, and Jane—save for the fact that they were all located in the same hemisphere. She cleared her throat and endeavoured to appear decently well composed.

"No, not as of yet. She has gone to call on my aunt," Elizabeth reminded.

"Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me. I only wished to say that I hope that when you do, you will find her spirits much improved. I have found Mr. Bingley's spirits much improved since his return to Netherfield."

She could not help the raise of her brow. "And this pleases you?"

"Very much, Miss Bennet," he said solemnly. "More than I can say. Bingley has done well for himself, but no better than he has done here. I wish him happy. I could not do otherwise."

Again, Elizabeth was left tongue-tied by his exchange. If appearing dazed and dumb was truly _de rigueur_ amongst the ladies of town, she was beginning to consider herself ready for a presentation to the Queen. She began to feel a true headache coming on and sought to make her excuses. Being near the man only seemed to puzzle her more!

"I am glad to hear it, Mr. Darcy," she replied with a slow nod he seemed to appreciate. "And now I really must be going. My family will surely have returned to Longbourn by now and I would not have them think I am not desirous of their company."

"Good day, Miss Bennet," he bowed. "Perhaps we shall meet again?"

"Good day, Mr. Darcy," she curtsied. "Perhaps we shall."

Neither had ever felt the formality of a parting more keenly.

Some moments later, before the twist of the bend carried the scene behind her completely out of view, she turned her head for a final look back—as if to prove to herself that she had not imagined the whole of their encounter.

Sure enough, Mr. Darcy remained where she had left him, his hands clasped behind his back and his face in the full summer sun, muddy splotch and all—watching her. With a final parting nod, she stepped beyond the bend and tugged furiously at the ribbons of her bonnet.

"Well, Mr. Darcy," she said to herself. "You certainly do know how to make an entrance."


	11. Chapter 11

Happy 4th of July to all my American readers! Happy Tuesday to everyone else!

This chapter is a short, introspective number to be followed by a lot of action and some smooth-talking Darcy.

In the meantime, since some time has passed between posts and someone mentioned some confusion regarding the new characters in the comments, I thought a quick recap might be in order. **Here's what we have cooking so far:**

Darcy (rejected by Elizabeth), runs into a mysterious stranger named Hyatt Hadley at his swanky club on a rare night out with Colonel Fitzwilliam (who is seriously dashing, by the by). Hadley, a serious level 3 stalker and a strong 8/10, provides Darcy with a handful of wagers signed by Darcy Sr. back in India some years ago. Pemberley = lost. The horror! _Quelle surprise!_ Darcy, disgusted by his irresponsible father, himself, and pretty much everything and everyone else around him, decides he's fed up with all society's BS and gives his entire life the cut direct.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth has been on her tour of Derbyshire, feeling rather bewildered by the whole Darcy/letter-writing scenario. She makes a new friend (frenemy?) at Pemberley, a widow named Lady Graham who is fairly good company but also exceedingly private and more than a little weird. Sickened by her own rather bleak circumstances, Elizabeth decides to move to London with her aunt to help out around the house and provide company during Aunt Gardiner's difficult pregnancy. Darcy comes by this information indirectly through Jane, and agrees to hide away from gossip (and his feels) in Hertfordshire (of all places) with Bingley (of all people) since Elizabeth Bennet will be in London (ohhh boy). He takes on a land steward(ish) role at Netherfield while he attempts to either get his head straight or go completely off his head.

Unfortunately for Mr. Morris (the owner of Netherfield and Bingley's literal landlord), he dies. Fortunately for Mrs. Bennet, the now-late Mr. Morris' nephew, a single man of large fortune (who must be in want of a wife), heads to Hertfordshire in order to attend to the legal matters re: poor old dead Mr. Morris.

Remembering that John Barry (said nephew) took a shine to Lizzy in the past, Mrs. Bennet forces her daughter to come home immediately and woo him into matrimony (because Mrs. Bennet is insane). Elizabeth returns to Longbourn as directed, and who does she run into? You guessed it, Mr. Darcy. Next, Rosalind eats some grass and Darcy surprises Elizabeth by being (Regency) topless, caked in mud, and hawwwwt but he's also pretty hawwwghty, irritable, and not big into sharing.

Shocking, I know.

Anyway, while I'm not Jane Austen (nor would I ever pretend to be. Yikes!), I hope you'll still find PL an enjoyable read... despite, you know, all of the dolla-dolla angst and a bit of dirt. Either way, please continue to comment with your thoughts/questions/concerns so I can address them in future posts!

Thanks for reading!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

" _A mind not to be changed by place or time.  
_ _The mind is its own place, and in itself  
_ _Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n."  
_ – _John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I –_

 **Sunday 2 August, 1812  
** _ **Longbourn**_

Elizabeth Bennet rose from the small bed she shared with her elder sister with a slow and practiced ease. As she made her way across the darkened room to the washstand, she was careful to avoid the boards in the floor she knew capable of the most emphatic protests.

Unfortunately for Jane, she could not avoid them all.

"Lizzy, it is full dark," croaked a familiar voice from the shadows. "Where are you going?"

"Hush, Jane," Elizabeth whispered. "Go back to sleep."

The bed groaned as the eldest Bennet sister pulled herself to a sitting position without a care for the noise or disturbance which her awkward and unsteady movements created. The still half-asleep beauty broke into a long yawn, rubbed her eyes, and gathered the rumpled blankets about her shoulders in preparation for her regular argument with her most beloved and headstrong sister. A low, crackling vibration escaped her throat as she hunched her shoulders in aggravation. The sweet and serene Jane Bennet loved everything and everyone she had ever seen, experienced, or met with equal pleasure.

Everything, that is, except the morning.

"But must you start out so terribly _early_?" Jane pleaded, concerned as much for her sister's welfare as the loss of her warmth below their shared coverlet. She was sluggish, worried, and _cold_. It was at these moments in the early morning when she came as close to feeling true displeasure for another person as she had ever been. It was a further commendation of her gentle, accommodating disposition that the eldest Bennet daughter retained her characteristic prudence in such trying times as these.

"I know you enjoy your morning walks, Lizzy, but you know as well as I that our Father would not be well pleased to find they begin so often before the dawn."

Elizabeth held back a laugh, an exercise aided by the cold water from the wash basin which promptly numbed her face. Even in the warmer summer months, mornings in Hertfordshire certainly retained their chill.

She replied with a smile her sister could not see but could hear in her voice nonetheless.

"Do you mean to expose me then? What sly arts you have acquired in my absence, Jane!" Elizabeth teased the shapeless blob she assumed must be Jane. "What shall my sentence be, do you think? Labour? Transportation? Perhaps I shall be forced to walk the plank! Worse yet, I could be forced to endure the company of Miss Bingley at leisure."

Jane frowned from her huddled position in the dark. Her sister knew full well that they were to spend a great deal of time with Caroline Bingley, now her future sister, in the coming weeks. Her exhausted mind jumped to the conclusions nearest in her memory. Elizabeth likely remained cross with her for her deception—nay, her _omission_ , relating to Mr. Darcy and his prolonged presence in Hertfordshire. Charles and Mr. Darcy had been very clear on the difference between the two and it was not in her nature to disagree. Nevertheless, she had spent much of the last evening attempting to convey to her sister the very same arguments which had seemed so sensible when described by the gentlemen. However, Lizzy's rebuttals had been sensible as well and so Jane could not disagree with either. She sighed. Must it be so dreadfully _early_?

"Lizzy," she began again with complete, unwavering sincerity. "You must know that I never meant for my silence to injure you in any way. Neither Char—Mr. Bingley nor I would wish to bring you any pain. I am sorry to have hurt you, Lizzy. It was truly not my intention."

Elizabeth pulled at the ties on her gown with renewed vigour. Yes, she knew Jane was sorry. In fact, Jane was sorrier than Elizabeth had any right to make her. More than that, she knew her dearest sister had meant for the best when she neglected to mention Mr. Bingley's proposal, her acceptance of said proposal, or the appearance of Mr. Darcy in the increasingly vague letters Elizabeth had received during her early summer tour.

Finally, the reason behind her sister's stark correspondence had been revealed to her and Elizabeth was almost glad of it. For a time, she had worried that the tidings she was to receive from Jane upon her return would be _bad_ instead of _glad_. Jane was incapable of deception and even less so of cruelty, and so, in an effort to maintain the surprise of her engagement as well as her principles, Jane had stayed silent on the two subjects most of interest to her distant and dearest sister. The first matter had been of her own volition, while the second had been omitted on the advice of her intended.

Elizabeth had not understood why Mr. Bingley would ask Jane to keep something so confounding as Mr. Darcy's whereabouts a secret from her, and Jane—though she agreed with her sister in principle—found that she could not in good faith deny the only request ever made to her by her future husband.

 _Her future husband!_

Jane sighed again.

Still, it had troubled her greatly to keep anything from her sister and she had no wish to ever repeat the process. She would speak to Charles about it as soon as he returned from town.

 _Charles!_

Elizabeth sighed, somewhat less reverently than her sister. She was overjoyed beyond measure for Jane and could not imagine a happier future for the person she loved best in all the world if she had tried. Jane Bingley would be a happy woman indeed, and it was not for Elizabeth to cloud her enthusiasm in these early days of her engagement. Whatever she felt about her soon-to-be brother's decision to conceal Mr. Darcy's presence from her, she found that she could no more stay angry with him than she could with Jane. She would have to rely on herself to unravel the riddle of Mr. Darcy. It was nothing to trouble the felicitations of the future Bingleys with.

"Rest easy, Jane. I have not been injured. I was only… surprised."

In this, Elizabeth believed she was telling the truth. She _had_ been surprised, after all, and the sight of Mr. Darcy, though shocking, had not done her any bodily harm.

"Truly, Jane. I am well," she continued. "Or I shall be, when I am once again able to look upon the most beautiful sight in all the world, save your lovely face, that is."

Jane's frown deepened. As Mrs. Bennet's most beautiful and thus favourite daughter, she was near immune to compliments and practiced flatteries meant to distract.

"You mean to walk to Oakham Mount."

"Yes, Jane. I do," Elizabeth confirmed for her sister in a decided tone. As she moved to the door, she could make out the faint outline of her sister's features, though she did not need to lay eyes on the specifics to know what she would find written there.

"Now clear your precious face of that serious expression, sister," she added playfully. "It is far too early for scowling and you will give yourself a crease. What would _Charles_ say?"

Jane, emboldened by fatigue, scoffed at the suggestion and responded in kind. "Careful, Lizzy. I am to call Caroline sister soon enough and I have no use for _two_ disagreeable sisters."

"Two?" Elizabeth laughed softly. "How generous of you not to say six! And as for Miss Bingley, you should take care to make her a sister as soon as may be. I would hate for your Charles to discover how very _disagreeable_ his own darling Jane is wont to be before breaking her fast! It is enough to tear people from their beds and send them to the mounts."

Jane wiggled her way under Elizabeth's abandoned pillow. She loved her sister, but some mornings she was just _too much_.

"Enjoy your walk, Lizzy."

"Pleasant dreams, Jane."

Elizabeth carried her walking boots in her hands as she made her way down the back stairs to the kitchen. Jane was right, it would not do to wake their father. Though he was well-known to be a rather lenient and demonstrably indifferent parent when it came to matters of ribbons, dances, and even dowries—he loved each of his five daughters in his way and believed himself to be, at his core, fiercely protective of his family. As such, even Thomas Bennet might draw the line at a lone, unmarried daughter setting off on long walks under the cover of darkness. Whatever the case, Elizabeth did not want to find out.

A few long, anxious moments later, Elizabeth was finally free to enjoy the refreshingly crisp air and solitude which awaited her outside Longbourn. She was pleased to find that though the sun had not yet risen over the horizon. The combination of a full, bright moon and the first tendrils of morning light served to illuminate the landscape before her well enough to make out the few necessary details of her well-traveled path. She would make quick work of her journey. Flush with an energy she had not felt since leaving Hertfordshire in the company of her relations, she departed the gates at the end of the Bennet drive in a full run.

Running had always helped Elizabeth to clear her thoughts in a way that not even the longest country ramble could match. When she walked, she considered, sorted, and analyzed her thoughts and feelings—generally arriving at a better understanding of the issue at hand by the time she returned to her door. However, more tumultuous emotions required a good, cleansing run, and at this early hour on the first morning of her return home from Derbyshire _and Pemberley_ , she had no wish to consider, sort, or analyze any thought or feeling so directly related to Mr. Darcy.

And so, she ran.

With each elongated step and her accompanying slight pitch into the air she felt lighter, more relaxed, unburdened.

However, as she neared the bend in the road which would bring her near Old Mr. Young's cottage—she still refused to think of it belonging to anyone else—she slowed her steps and stopped to catch her breath. Just there, beyond the curve of the lane, would be Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth, who attributed both her breathlessness and scorching cheeks to her brisk run, could not help but consider the picture he had presented the day before. _Mr. Darcy_ , arguing with a temperamental mare in the middle of a country lane. _Mr. Darcy_ , his skin browned by the summer sun and his face speckled with mud. _Mr. Darcy_ , the fine lawn of his shirt clinging tight to his powerfully built, undeniably masculine, stunning form.

"Stunning, Lizzy? Really?" she chided herself aloud, purposefully ignoring the flip of her stomach when she thought of _that_ particular aspect of their meeting. It was not as if she had ever failed to realize that Mr. Darcy was… well, he was certainly not unpleasant to look upon—particularly when he wasn't scowling. The time she had spent perusing the portrait in his gallery—purely in passing, she reminded herself—had given her an even better appreciation for his chiseled features, the firm set of his jaw, the broad set of his shoulders, his strong legs, slightly narrowed waist, his—

"Oh!" she exclaimed, rather surprised at the direction of her thoughts. This would not do! She could hardly stand in the middle of the road making a careful appraisal of Mr. Darcy's every form and feature, especially when the memory of his portrait now paled significantly in comparison to the wild, muddied, disheveled _vision_ he had presented her the day before. If her pulse quickened at the memory, she gave it no notice.

No, this would not do at all!

She had set out for Oakham Mount earlier than usual for precisely this reason. She had no desire to take the longer way around to spy the sunrise over Oakham Mount, which would necessitate a long and uneven path through the dense wood, but she had even less of an interest in meeting _him_ again so soon. She had spent half the night puzzling over his mysterious appearance in Hertfordshire, and the other half…

Yes, an early expedition was the best thing for her.

He was from town, after all, and though she knew he did not keep town hours when he had stayed with Mr. Bingley at Netherfield the previous autumn, there was certainly no reason to worry he would rise _this_ early. A man of leisure might take a cottage, but he was still a man of leisure.

Gathering her skirts in her fists as if collecting her strength, she bobbed forward. It was not until she was within shouting distance of the cottage that she realized her mistake. There—just there, in the far front window of the cottage—was a very small, very dim, very lit candle.

It seemed Mr. Darcy had adapted to country life very well indeed.

Elizabeth decided to pay the cottage no notice as she slowly crept past it in the misty near-dark of dawn. It was no business of _hers_ if Mr. Darcy was an uncommonly early riser, especially for the town set. If he should happen to come out his door and meet her, well, she would greet him as a common and indifferent acquaintance. Which he was! Entirely common and decidedly indifferent at that!

 _If_ he should happen to come out his door, she would show him every politeness and civility she would bestow upon any other neighbor she might come across on a given day.

If he should happen to come out his door, that was.

As she passed by it now, perhaps, or say, in 5 steps or so.

Perhaps when she reached the gate?

Elizabeth rounded the next bend entirely without incident. The cottage door remained firmly closed.

Inexplicably vexed by the successful culmination of her plans to avoid Mr. Darcy, she released her skirts and attempted to smooth over the creases left behind with her hands. It was no use. Why had she twisted the fabric so! She was rumpled beyond redemption and would need to change when she returned home. She shook her head in dissatisfaction—in reference to the miserable state of her skirts, of course, for it had nothing at all to do with Mr. Darcy. She certainly had no disappointments to report _there_.

Elizabeth completed her pilgrimage just in time, for the first rays of sunlight were peeking over the base of the valley below as she dropped into a sitting position atop her favourite stone. She watched in delight as the rich twilight of the night sky gave way to a crescendo of soft pinks, reds, and golds. She steadied herself with several deep breaths, lost in the beauty of the scene before her as a new dawn crept across the land below and gave birth to a fresh day.

It was glorious.

With her sights focused on the view before her, her thoughts turned to Jane, soon— _finally_ —to be Mrs. Bingley. Jane was incandescently happy, and not just when discussing her future position as wife to the man she loved. The light in her eyes and the soft glow of her countenance followed her every action and movement, from humming as she pruned, to smiling at her needlework, to staring idly out windows at nothing in particular for hours on end. Even Elizabeth, who had been familiar with her elder sister's every mood for the entirety of her life, did not know how her sister capable of such happiness—or indeed that anyone was capable of feeling so—but she supposed that if anyone were able to lay claim to such an intense feeling of bliss, it must be Jane. She only hoped that Mr. Bingley deserved her.

Thoughts of Jane and Mr. Bingley soon led down a different path and she was in the middle of pondering Mr. Darcy's mysterious reappearance before she realized she had begun. Despite her hopes, Jane had little to offer with regards to that gentleman's return to the country, but she did know that he and Mr. Bingley meant it to remain a secret. Whether that secret was to be kept from her alone or all of Meryton, Jane did not know and Elizabeth could not guess.

Elizabeth, who had been quite certain that she would never see him again after their last meeting at Rosings, had not yet entirely come to terms with his sudden, unsettling presence less than two miles from her family home.

 _Of course, showing up unexpectedly is rather his forte_ , she mused silently.

She had not expected to see him _that day_ either, and yet he had appeared from the wood like some avenging angel and dropped Pandora's box into her hands. Everything she had thought she knew of Mr. Darcy—well, _almost_ everything—had been thrown asunder by the revelations he had so carefully detailed in his letter to her. Chief amongst them was the unhappy discovery that Mr. Wickham was a rake and a liar of the worst kind, and the startling revelation that Mr. Darcy had, at one time, fancied himself in love with her. Elizabeth twisted in her seat and stood from her perch on the rock, suddenly as uncomfortable and restless as she had been throughout the long night before.

 _His letter!_

Elizabeth's brow furrowed as she pulled the very article from her dress pocket. Of course, she never should have accepted such a thing—a _token_ of such a kind—from him or any other person so wholly unconnected to her, but once it had come into her possession she found she could not part with it. On occasion, she wondered if she had done the right thing by accepting it, especially given the fact that she was half-sure she would keep it for the rest of her days. It was the only love letter she had ever received, after all, despite how well— _or fabulously ill_ —it performed its office.

She knew that her reputation could be ruined by the simple act of holding it in her hands, by some standards—likely Lady Catherine de Bourgh's, for instance. And he had signed his initials to it, as though they were familiar! Yes, Lady Catherine would consider her quite ruined indeed—not that _that_ lady would ever consider forcing a marriage between the two for anything. The Queen herself would likely be left to the jackals if Lady Catherine de Bourgh believed such a sacrifice would endear her sickly wisp of a daughter to her somber nephew. The unlikely image of Lady Catherine—or better yet, Mr. Collins—demanding Mr. Darcy marry her gave her some little joy and she smiled before returning her gaze to the other, somewhat less astonishing admissions Mr. Darcy had included in his decidedly improper letter to her.

That he had removed Mr. Bingley from Jane she had already suspected, though she did not believe he would have gone so far as to conceal her sister's presence in town from a man he had the audacity to call a friend. Such insufferable presumption! And yet he had revealed himself to be a kind, forgiving, and devoted brother to a sister barely older or more sensible than Lydia. _And yes,_ he had proclaimed himself in love with her— _ardently_ in love with her, as it were—and yet the same man had called her, within her own hearing, barely _tolerable_ enough to tempt him _to dance_! He had insulted her person, her family, and all her relations, not only in his letter, but repeatedly and indiscriminately during all his time in Hertfordshire. He had scowled and brooded and scarcely spoken a word to her or anyone of her acquaintance in the whole time she had known him—and yet…

And yet she did not know.

It was true that her family had behaved, on occasion, as he had described so vehemently across his fine parchment. It was true that her pride had been wounded by his offensive words at their first meeting. It was true that he was wealthy, and powerful, and well-connected, and sought after by every eligible—and she assumed some not-so-eligible—woman in and outside of town. But it was _also true_ that he was haughty, proud, taciturn, sometimes disagreeable, always above his company, and _entirely_ vexing. And yet he was kind, and honourable, well-read, intelligent, highly regarded by his staff and tenants, and, she begrudgingly admitted, something of an above-average dancer. Even the vile Mr. Wickham had called him liberal-minded, sincere, and agreeable amongst those of his acquaintance! He was everything and nothing, Mr. Darcy. And despite all her efforts in Hertfordshire, Hunsford, Pemberley, or on Oakham Mount, she could not make him out.

With a sigh, Elizabeth settled herself back upon the rock and endeavored to enjoy the fruits of her labour. The sky was a brilliant show of light and shadows, colour and clouds, admiration and awe. So dazzled was she that it was not long before she forgot to direct her thoughts away from Mr. Darcy and they resumed their course.

While she could no longer look upon her censure of Mr. Darcy without feeling ashamed by her own behaviour, she likewise had no direct cause to think him entirely different from her previous attempts at sketching his character. His behaviour on the muddy lane the afternoon before had only further muddled any opinion of him she might have held longer than a full sennight together. It seemed he was determined to act as though his letter, as well as his… _proposal_ had never taken place. She would hardly believe it herself if she had not the evidence of both in hand! And yet he _had_ treated her somewhat… differently than he had before, she supposed. Although, she reflected, his behavior towards her yesterday was just as likely a result of his disordered appearance and misplaced attire as anything else. He certainly could not still be in love with her. In fact, she was not entirely of the belief that he ever truly had been. What did Mr. Darcy know of love? What did she?

And yet he was here! In Hertfordshire! A fact which he apparently wanted kept from her so much so that he had somehow engaged the deception of her own sister!

 _What in heaven's name could any of it mean?_

Sliding Mr. Darcy's letter back into her dress pocket, Elizabeth shook her mind clear, focused her thoughts on the day ahead, and pointed her feet in the direction of Longbourn. She did her best to forget that—thanks to their rather close encounter yesterday—she now knew the gentleman in the cottage over the ridge smelled of sandalwood and spice and that his eyes were not fully brown but tinged with flecks of green and gold. She could not think of him without reflecting on her own abhorrent behaviour or speculating as to his thoughts, motives, and even the composition of his character. It was better not to think of him at all.

Now that the sun had risen, she would travel the long way home. If there were a better place to avoid the bewildering Mr. Darcy and his _impressive_ figure than in the midst of a dense wood, she could not imagine one. As she stepped over a collection of fallen branches, she resolved to think on him no longer for the remainder of the day. No amount of thinking on that gentleman's attributes or errors seemed to do either any credit, and she had no wish to dwell on problems she could not solve at present. Mr. Darcy was himself the very embodiment of such a problem.

Instead, she would consider facts she knew to be true—that she was meant to attend a night of dinner, dancing, and cards that evening at the home of Sir and Lady Lucas, that her mother fully intended John Barry to be her next-son-in-law, and that said gentleman would be in attendance. Thus it appeared Mr. John Barry was soon to become a problem as well.

By the time Elizabeth returned to Longbourn some three quarters of an hour later, she had made up her mind to remain calm and collected in the face of her mother's scheming later that evening. She would not allow her mother's actions—or indeed, those of _any_ member of her family to have any effect on her whatsoever. They would behave as was their wont, she would check them when she was able, and if any gentleman of her acquaintance should find any of them wanting as a result—that was entirely his own affair.

Elizabeth was so pleased with herself that she did not immediately hear the anguished cries of her mother as she made her way back up the drive to Longbourn. Unfortunately, her blissful ignorance could not last for long.

"Oh! Mr. Bennet!" She finally heard her mother call out—clear as a bell—from somewhere inside the house. Elizabeth stopped in her tracks and tipped her head, hoping to hear her mother better without drawing attention to her own whereabouts. She need not have worried. Years of practice at her own art had rendered Mrs. Bennet's vocal chords as stout and sturdy as those of the finest opera singers in the kingdom. Her clear, robust soprano rang out across the garden.

"Whatever are we to do?! My dear girl! Oh, my dearest girl! Lydia! What is to become of her!"

Startled and concerned for her youngest sister's safety, Elizabeth hurried her steps towards the house. However, her mother's next words locked her steps once more—and upon hearing them, Elizabeth would hear her own voice cry out in shock and horror.

"My dear Jane! Kitty, bring me my salts! At once, girl! You cannot know how I suffer. Oh! Mr. Bennet! Mr. Wickham must be found at once! He must be made to marry her, Mr. Bennet! He _must_! Oh! We are all ruined!"


	12. Chapter 12

Hey all! Thanks for your patience with this post. We've had some RL problems over the last two weeks, but the fog seems to be lifting.

The _good news_ is that this chapter is a good deal longer than the last (word count consistency is not my thing and I don't really know that I want it to be). Honestly, this will probably end up being two shorter chapters when I tweak the story after it's finished, but after all your waiting I couldn't bear to chop it up.

If you're just joining us and need a refresher, head back to the last chapter posted above for a crash course in the story so far.

The _bad news_ is that this chapter is entirely Darcy-less. Yes, yes, I had to prepare you. Lydia's bad behaviour necessitated a slight change and the planned interlude with Darcy has taken a stroll on over to Chapter 11. We can all blame Lydia because it's her fault. Even if it isn't, she deserves it.

Boo, hiss, boo!

More Darcy & Elizabeth and significantly less Mrs. Bennet in the chapter to follow. Cross my heart.

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

" _What reinforcement we may gain from hope,  
_ _If not what resolution from despair."  
_ – _John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I –_

Three rounds of salts and two cups of tea later, Mrs. Bennet was nearly returned to her regular volume and standard measure of suffering. The offending letter from Colonel Forster sat folded inside the writing desk. Its concealment allowed her daughters to hope it had been rendered incapable of causing any additional, ear-splitting outbursts from their mother—at least for a time. Though she loved her mother, Elizabeth wondered if Mrs. Bennet would not have preffered it if Lydia's attempt to elope with Mr. Wickham _had_ been a success. It hardly mattered now, of course, but Elizabeth wondered all the same.

The lady in question had taken to wringing a handkerchief in agitation now, while her husband returned to his study, ostensibly to pen a letter to Colonel Forster in Brighton. However, when Elizabeth entered the room some quarter of an hour later, there was not a quill in sight. Instead, fixed front and center of the imposing oak desk of her great-great-grandfather was a large, rare bottle of Mr. Bennet's most treasured brandy.

"Papa, are you not to write to Colonel Forster?" Elizabeth asked innocently, though she and—thanks to the incredible feats of volume her mother's wails had ultimately achieved—quite possibly everyone else in Hertfordshire already knew the answer.

"Do not exert yourself unduly, my girl," her father replied in a resigned tone, pinching his brow together with his fingers. "I shall draft a sufficiently somber letter to the Colonel soon enough. I daresay even your mother will be satisfied by my impassioned expressions of melancholy expostulation."

Thomas Bennet could play the fool all he liked with his wife and other daughters, but his Elizabeth would have none of it—a certitude of which both parties engaged in this very conversation had already been made well aware by way of years of practice. She crossed her arms and gave him a look filled with as much compassionate reproach as she could muster. He was still her father, after all.

"And what will you say?"

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair and smiled wanly. It was just like his Lizzy to divine the heart of the matter. Truly, he had no idea what he was to say. What was a father _meant_ to say in such a situation? What condolences or censure was he to impart in such a letter? He had no idea.

But of course, he had never been a particularly vigilant progenitor. He, having never known his own father, had lacked the benefit of an exemplary illustration to pattern himself after and rather thought his daughters capable of cultivating their own interests and guiding their development into young persons of character and credibility as much as second sons so often did. Had it not been for the untimely death of his eldest brother, he might not have had quite so many daughters to confuse his well intentioned—though slack—efforts at parenting. Though, he considered, perhaps he was not so strong of character nor credible of deed as he would have liked after all.

For the first time, Thomas Bennet felt all the weight of his ignorance and indifference. It was a sudden, striking feeling he immediately wished to dispel. In an effort to do so, he used the only tool available to him—other than the spirits, that is. He led with a jest.

"Ah, you have divined the purpose of the brandy then. You always were a clever girl, Lizzy. Perhaps you would like to write to Colonel Forster yourself?"

He was half humour, half hope. Regrettably, Elizabeth's original mission continued, undeterred.

"Papa, be serious. What are we to do about Lydia?"

Despite the better aspects of his character and the strong admiration he felt for his second eldest child, Thomas Bennet could not help the misdirected ire from rising in his chest.

"What are we to do?" he scoffed, leaning forward to place an elbow on the edge of his desk. He offered a mock toast to himself with the half-raised arm. "I believe you must mean what am _I_ to do. Am I correct, Lizzy? For surely a father must do _something_ when his silliest daughter is determined to play the fool to the detriment of her whole family."

His face crossed in shadow, Mr. Bennet leant back into his chair and took a long drink. Elizabeth waited, scarcely daring to draw breath. She waited. And waited. And waited.

At length he continued.

"What can be done about it? I have no idea."

Elizabeth gasped with consternation at the paltry results of his deliberation.

"She must be made to return home, Papa! As soon as may be!"

Her father nodded his agreement, his eyes closed in weary acknowledgement of his concession. This much he already knew. It was the particulars of the Lydia's perilous, disgraceful situation which continued to trouble him. He preferred to engage such serious topics only in his books. Still, the pages had turned and _something_ must be done.

If only he knew what!

What did one do with a daughter who had attempted to elope from the safety and complement of a Colonel's home? What _could_ be done with a young woman too insensible to atone for or even regret her actions? Even the seemingly nonchalant Mr. Bennet, long oblivious to the confounding concerns and fickle feelings of women, was still well versed enough in the workings of society to know that such a single, foolhardy display by his youngest and silliest daughter would still prove ruinous to the others.

"Of course, of course," he finally relented. "Lydia must return home at once. I have only to decide if I shall have Colonel Forster send her here direct, or if I should go to Brighton to collect her myself."

Elizabeth nodded, glad of the change in her father's demeanour and somewhat encouraged by the new direction of his thoughts. She pursed her lips as she considered the remaining options available to them.

"If Colonel Forster were to send her away unexpectedly, certainly there would be more talk."

"Yes," her father agreed. "Yet if I am to go and to collect her so many weeks before she is due to leave Brighton…"

"There will be talk as well."

Mr. Bennet released a deep breath he had not realized he had been holding, glad that his Lizzy understood his predicament with so few words necessary between them.

"Precisely. Brandy?"

Elizabeth ignored her father's offer and sat herself in the chair opposite his desk, idly tapping her fingers across the closed cover of his accounts. It was yet another reminder that there would be no time for estate business today. He must attend to the far more difficult work of being a father instead.

When Elizabeth spoke, her voice was low and still, the pace of her words allowing for her meaning to sink in slowly. She had no wish to discuss what they both knew to be the true problem at hand with her father, but she was also painfully aware that such a discussion must be had sooner than later. As her mother was not up to the task—nor was she ever likely to be so—the responsibility fell to Lizzy.

"Surely there must be something that can be done to minimize the knowledge and… consequences of Lydia's attempted… activities."

Mr. Bennet scoffed again at the decidedly optimistic picture he knew his daughter had attempted to fashion for his benefit. Mr. Bennet was many things, but an optimist was not among them.

"Yes, Lizzy. Her _attempted_ activities must certainly be minimized as much as they may be. As for the rest…"

Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Elizabeth's face fell. She let the implications of his words seep in, hoping their effects would be of short duration. It was not to be. The potential, even more ruinous _activities_ Lydia might have engaged in _before_ the intended elopement with Mr. Wickham… both Bennets suddenly felt the air too thick to breathe.

"We are not yet certain of the particulars, Papa," Elizabeth gasped, suddenly struggling for air in the stale room. "It is still possible that Lydia's reputation might be salvaged."

Of course, she was not sure that she believed her own words. After all, what man would lead a willing woman into an elopement if he had been given no reason to expect, or worse, _already entertained_ her favours? But for her father's sake and that of her sisters, she would try and hope for the best. For his part, her father rubbed his brow and examined the tepid movements of the brandy still present in his glass with far more diligence than he had lately shown to any of his five daughters.

"Think what you will, my dear, if it gives you comfort. I am sure the answers will come to you with time, Lizzy, if you think long enough."

Mr. Bennet reached into the great desk and removed his writing case.

"As for myself, I am sorry to say that I find myself entirely unprepared for such negotiations. I suppose I should have practiced more, but then I have never had a mind to practice much of anything. No, I have done as I wished all my life without much thought for the consequences. It is a failure of my design I seem to have passed on to my daughters as well."

The long-dormant patriarch of the Bennet family shook his head with a slow cadence. For the first time, Elizabeth felt her father appeared much older than his seven-and-forty years would have otherwise allowed. He was weary. And she could not blame him—not entirely.

Neither party had noticed Jane's arrival until her soft voice was heard from the doorway.

"Papa, I think I might have a solution."

Two sets of fine Bennet eyes flashed in the direction of the eldest daughter of Longbourn with an alertness edging on desperation. They remained silent as Jane gathered her strength. She rarely ventured into her father's study and was even less comfortable within its dusty, book-lined walls lined when Lizzy was present. It was no well-kept secret that Lizzy and her father enjoyed a special closeness which did not, by its nature, include Jane—though the strength of their bond had never given her any cause for either melancholy or envy. Jane loved her father as well as she loved all her dear family, and she knew that he loved her as much as any father loved a daughter in return. Simply put, Jane could not resent his relationship with Lizzy because she did not understand it. However, she did understand that their similar natures and sharp minds well enough to be glad they had one another in a house so often beset by idleness and frivolity. Still, she had never been comfortable invading their sanctuary in order to express her own decidedly less inventive opinions and ideas—and today was no exception.

"If I… If I were to wed Mr. Bingley sooner than expected, could we not call Lydia home to Longbourn?"

Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet regarded her with wide, curious eyes as she continued.

"We could say her presence was needed to assist our mother with her preparations."

Jane watched as her father and sister turned to regard one another before exchanging quick, parallel nods. She briefly wondered if they knew how similar they were—from their words, to the direction of their thoughts, to their very movements.

When Elizabeth spoke, it was clear that her father gladly ceded her the floor. He busied himself with his brandy as his two eldest daughters debated the suitability of Jane's plan. After their conversation had gone on for some duration, he realized he had heard enough.

"Mr. Bingley should be consulted at the very least, Jane," Elizabeth was saying. "Surely you must write to him before making any decision of the sort."

Before Jane was able to reply, a sharp burst of Mr. Bennet's rare booming laughter surprised them both. They turned to face him wearing identical expressions that belied both innocence as well as their confusion.

"Save your parchment, daughter. We will inform Mr. Bingley of the change in plans when he returns from town. I daresay his answer would be the same if Jane should like to move their wedding forward an hour or a month." He chuckled again and raised his glass to toast his eldest. "Go on then, Jane. Share with us the rest of your scheme."

Jane froze.

She had already shared the entirety of her plan and the insinuation that there could or _should_ be more to follow rattled her newfound admiration for her own rather expert problem solving abilities.

Sensing her unease, Elizabeth revealed a plan of her own.

"I will go to Brighton."

Jane gasped.

Elizabeth nodded.

Mr. Bennet visibly recoiled.

" _You_? No, my child. I see no occasion for that."

Elizabeth stood from her chair and folded her hands together so that she might appear to her best advantage when explaining her argument to her father.

"Papa, it is clear that Lydia cannot remain to her own devices… and," she paused before continuing, nodding in the direction of Jane so that her father might understand she meant to keep the implications of her next statement between them. "And we must know what we are dealing with before she is moved. Or indeed, if she can be moved safely, at present."

Her declaration finished, she looked to her father expectantly. His reply was not what she had anticipated.

"And you think _you_ ought to provide such a service to your sister, Lizzy?" her father asked with sharp eyes.

Elizabeth, unsure of her his meaning, tilted her head. "Yes, Sir. It is a service I would easily provide for myself, and all my sisters."

Mr. Bennet leaned forward in his chair, pressing his hands together to stop them shaking.

"What you mean to say, Lizzy," he began in a cutting tone he typically reserved for his wife, "is that it is a service you do not believe your father capable of providing."

Elizabeth remained silent.

After several looks from one stubborn Bennet to the other, Jane burst forth to express her singular opinion for what was to be the second—though not final—occasion that day. The first attempt had gone well enough, after all, and so she chanced to try again. Unfortunately, today was to be the day Jane Bennet would learn an important lesson about beginner's luck.

"Papa! Surely Lizzy does not mean to say—"

"No, Jane," her father held up a hand to halt her stuttering attempt at pacification. She could do nothing but comply, and so both daughters resumed their silence while they waited for him to continue. When he did, Mr. Bennet spoke with an exacting resonance that neither daughter had heard before and soon wished they would never have cause to hear again. He had been put in his place by no less than three of his five daughters on this day, and though he agreed with two of them in principle, he could no longer stand the abuse he knew in his heart he so richly deserved.

 _It was too much._

"I believe I know exactly what your sister means, Jane. I may be a paltry excuse for a father, but I assure you both that I will do my duty today. Go now, Lizzy. Go now, Jane. Leave your father to his letters. There is much work to be done, and as we all know I have little natural capacity for it, I should like a modicum of silence in this house while I complete my task. Go to your mother and tell her the news. And then, get her out of my house."

Elizabeth and Jane did as they were instructed.

Mr. Bennet returned to his brandy.

Less than half an hour later, the four remaining Bennet daughters at Longbourn shared a look of knowing exasperation with one another as their mother preened and prodded about her eldest daughter. As her rapturous exhalations of prayers answered and prayers relayed likely reached the heavens, none of the Bennet sisters thought it necessary to listen with any great interest.

No sooner than she had received the news that her eldest daughter was to wed Mr. Bingley of Netherfield Park and _five-thousand a year_ in just two short weeks instead of two months together, all her remaining troubles regarding her youngest child seemed to melt into the ether. There were menus to plan, gowns to ready, ribbons to buy, and—most vitally—a neighbourhood to invite.

It was almost as if Colonel Forster's letter from Brighton had never come at all.

The carriage was called within ten minutes of Jane's revelation, and despite the fact that Mr. Bingley himself had yet to be apprised of the rather abrupt change in his wedding plans, the Bennet ladies were soon off to Meryton to inform all their relations and acquaintances of the happy news.

"Make haste, girls! Make haste!" Mrs. Bennet called to her daughters as she fluttered her arms and herded them to the door like a mother hen. "My sister Phillips will want to hear all the details and we must see Jane to the shops before they close! There will be little to choose from of course, but we will see what we can find."

The carriage ride into Meryton was a quick one, the equipage slowing only long enough for Mrs. Bennet to peer through the windows of the milliner's shop as they passed. She scowled at the sight of it, her displeasure with the offerings therein written readily on her face as was her wont in times of great feeling.

Elizabeth and Jane began to suspect they had made a rather serious mistake.

Mary read.

Kitty coughed.

The scene inside the carriage was little better, being frequently punctuated by Mrs. Bennet's customary arguments against her husband's unwillingness to take the whole of the family to town in order to visit the best warehouses. Momentary lapses in the elocution of her favourite complaint allowed for the berating of Kitty for her vulgar coughing, Mary for her dreary interest in books, and Elizabeth for not looking well-enough to charm a tenant farmer—let alone Mr. John Barry, the richest man to ever walk into Meryton!

Of Jane, nothing could be said.

 _Had a letter come from Brighton at all? Perhaps they had imagined it._

Elizabeth bit her tongue as she considered her mother's stark change in behaviour and very nearly pointed out to her that John Barry was not even the richest man ever to walk into Netherfield, let alone Meryton—at least not while Mr. Darcy and his ten-thousand a year still roamed the earth. And she had certainly managed to charm _that gentleman_ with some degree of success, despite all her intentions to the contrary. She considered it a fruitless argument however, and remained on her best behaviour so as not to offer any cause for her increasingly capricious mother to return to her previous state of mournful agony and despair.

What would her mother say if she knew a man of such consequence had sequestered himself only a short mile-and-a-half from their door! Or that he had proposed to her—and she had refused him!

She chewed her cheek to keep from laughing. Elizabeth knew full well that such an admission would probably land _her_ in the hedgerows, and so in the end it would be beloved Jane who would finally test her mother's temper—but before such a shocking ordeal came to pass, Mrs. Phillips would have her say.

"My dear sister!" the short, rather plump woman gushed over her tea. "You will never believe the news I have to share! What a happy thing that you should come to call today of all days, for the news I have to share involves you and your daughters as well!"

The ladies of Longbourn sat stone-faced as they regarded their aunt with a trepidation they had never felt before. With scarcely a breath between them, their mother's eldest, dearest, and most dangerous sister continued her performance.

"The most distressing rumour has reached my ears this very morning!"

Quite contented to be holding such a captive court, Aunt Phillips took her time stirring her tea before deigning to speak again. She leaned closer in an effort to whisper the details to her sister and assembled nieces, as though the pillows in her sitting room could not be trusted with such delicious gossip.

"You know that I am not one to engage in the idle tittering and tattering of town, sister—"

"Nor I!" Mrs. Bennet squealed, "for who has the time for such matters? And I, with Longbourn and five daughters to manage!"

"Indeed!" her sister huffed to conceal her resentment, for she had only a small house in Meryton and no children of her own left to crow over. "But the reason I bring this to you, dear, is that it involves a soldier of our recent acquaintance. In truth, a soldier who has been connected to one of your own girls!"

The room gasped.

Mrs. Phillips took on the air of a cat who had finally caught her canary.

Fanny Bennet's cap tilted towards the floor.

"A soldier, you say? And… one of my girls?"

Mrs. Bennet's face darkened and each of her four daughters began to suspect that the worst was to follow. Either their Aunt Phillips had somehow caught wind of Lydia's attempted elopement from Brighton on the very same day that the unfortunate news had reached their door, or their mother was about to give up the scandalous tale of her own volition. Fortunately, neither crisis was to unfold in the small, hideously decorated and vastly over-crowded sitting room of their Aunt Phillips. Unfortunately, another was soon to arrive—displacing all thoughts of Lydia from the mind of even her most anxious sisters.

The uneasy silence which had fallen on the room was broken by one of Kitty's bothersome coughs, but her mother paid her no notice as she willed her miserable sister to either speak or burst into flames.

At the moment, either outcome felt equally agreeable to her.

"I am sorry to be the one to share such distressing news, my dearest Fanny," prevaricated the elder sister of Francine Bennet, who in all honesty had never felt a crisis of conscience in all her life—a deception made abundantly clear by the crass smirk which stole across her fair features. Every slight against her younger, handsomer, more advantageously married sister felt like a medal of valour she had earned by years of silent sacrifice and abuse at the hands—and mouth —of little Franny Gardiner.

She was enjoying this immensely.

"It seems that the soldier in question—in truth _Mr. Wickham_ , has abandoned his post with the militia and taken off for the continent!"

The assembled Bennets waited for the news of Lydia's entangled disgrace to drop from their aunt's lips—but it did not. It was a full minute together before the two eldest Bennet sisters recalled enough of their senses to feign shock and horror at what should have been a most startling announcement. Their youngest sisters quickly followed suit, gasping and hawing over the supposed revelation of such supreme cowardice and deception as this! How was such a thing to be believed!

Once again, the four Bennet sister shared a secret thought amongst themselves.

 _If Mrs. Phillips only knew the lengths of Mr. Wickham's treachery, she was likely to expire with joy!_

Mrs. Bennet's eyes remained fixed on the self-satisfied sneer of her elder sister. Finally, she asked the question which had rested on all of their minds only moments before.

"And you say this has something to do with one of my girls?"

"Why yes of course!" Mrs. Bennet's least favourite sister pronounced in obvious expectation that her meaning should have been clear enough already. The Bennets furrowed their brows in unison and at length Mrs. Phillips continued her miserable monologue, taking so great a care to explain the implied scandal to them that they might have all been children.

"It is well known in Meryton that Mr. Wickham had long been a favourite of your Lizzy, my dear girls." Her closing words were touched by an air of closeness none of the others could feel.

"Elizabeth!" Mrs. Bennet cried.

"Me?" Elizabeth laughed.

"Lizzy!" Aunt Phillips scolded.

Elizabeth shook her head, glad of the break in her anxiety no matter the cause. She countered her aunt's accusation with a tight smile. "Aunt, why should anyone be concerned with Mr. Wickham on my account? We barely know him."

"There has been some talk of a secret engagement," hissed Aunt Phillips. Of course such a thing should be obvious, should it not!

Elizabeth was blind-sighted. So taken aback was she that she could not help the concern in her voice when she made her reply. It was a hesitation her aunt found most interesting.

"A secret engagement! Between myself and Mr. Wickham? I hardly see how such a preposterous idea should be considered by anyone at all after even a single moment of deliberation."

The rest of the room, save her aunt, knew the idea of a secret engagement with Mr. Wickham was not so entirely _preposterous_ as Elizabeth had suggested—with some slight adjustments made as to the Bennet daughter in question.

Her aunt, who was hardly known for her tendencies toward deliberation, regarded her with a critical eye. However, to her horror, it was Elizabeth's mother who spoke next.

"So you are not engaged to him?"

"Aunt! Mama!" Elizabeth cried in aggravation. She crossed her arms and uncrossed her arms before throwing her hands in the air while her head bobbed in a most unladylike manner.

"Of course I am not engaged to him! Nor would I _ever_ be engaged to him!"

Her mother and aunt, now as close as sisters could be, did not appear entirely convinced by her pronouncements, and so she pressed on.

"Nor would I ever enter into _any_ sort of secret engagement!" Elizabeth turned to her mother and intended to impart a clearer meaning than her aunt could possibly understand, given the fact that Colonel Forster's letter _had_ arrived at Longbourn that very morning and her mother could not possibly believe _she_ would have made any such arrangements with Mr. Wickham.

"You must all see how ridiculous this sounds, Mama! It is the most _impossible_ fiction I have ever heard."

Mrs. Bennet blinked. Thankfully, she seemed to catch her meaning.

"I am glad to hear you confirm it, Lizzy," her mother soothed. "Of course I never suspected such a thing!"

"Nor I, sister!" chimed Mrs. Phillips.

The two bosom Gardiner sisters nodded their heads in unison and her Aunt Phillips seemed to regain some measure of the little sense available to her.

"It lightens my heart to hear such a story so uniformly contradicted, niece. For when you hear the next piece of information which follows… though I am not sure I should share such a tale in such delicate company..."

Aunt Phillips shuddered theatrically.

Mrs. Bennet was entranced.

Elizabeth was exasperated beyond measure.

"Go on, Aunt. What further marks on my reputation can you have to reveal? I should like to deny them as soon as may be for we must visit the shops before they close or Jane will have no ribbons when she weds Mr. Bingley."

Mrs. Bennet, remembering her purpose for the day and all of the other neighbours she still had to call upon, clucked her agreement.

Mrs. Phillips' practiced tone now fell somewhere between a shriek and a whisper. "But it is not your reputation I speak of, dear Lizzy—but Mr. Darcy's!"

"Mr. Darcy!" the room cried.

"Yes," their aunt breathed, "for _he_ is the one who has driven Wickham to a life—or death!—branded as a deserter."

The clamour of the room rose to previously unforeseen heights of bewilderment, agitation, and concern. So many voices competed for sisterly attention that none achieved their object.

"Mr. Darcy!" the voices cried in unison before splintering into all levels of reflection and speculation.

"The wealthy gentleman from Derbyshire?"

"Sister, how perfectly scandalous!"

"That tall man? The proud one?"

"Surely such a plot cannot involve Mr. Darcy!"

"Let our speech be always with Grace, seasoned with salt."

Elizabeth regarded the exclamations of her family with utter astonishment at the mere mention of the gentleman's name and said nothing.

"Yes, girls," their aunt primped. "The very same! We all knew him to be a proud, disagreeable sort of man. It would seem his jealousy and hatred for Mr. Wickham knows no bounds!"

"But how, sister?" Mrs. Bennet urged in a conspiratorial tone long familiar to all the women present, but none more so than her tattling sister. "Has Mr. Darcy some new quarrel with Mr. Wickham? Has he threatened him? Is Mr. Wickham in danger?! Oh, what a hateful, savage man to destroy the happy futures of so many!"

The Bennet girls could only look on in awe as their aunt and mother shifted their opinions and changed allegiances for no less than the third time that afternoon.

"No sister, it is worse!" cried Mrs. Phillips in cheerful agony. "It appears Mr. Darcy has called in a number of debts of honour on Mr. Wickham. We all know Mr. Darcy has treated Wickham without even the smallest kindness and reduced him from a man of means to his current situation. Why, poor Wickham told me so himself in this very parlour! It is said that Mr. Darcy's own coffers have run dry and he now means to ruin Wickham entirely by taking what little he has left to his name! Indeed, it is not even known if the gentleman's vowels are… legitimate."

Elizabeth started at this baffling report. That Mr. Darcy should have some need of assistance at all—and from _Mr. Wickham_ , no less! The very man who had squandered his inheritance, nearly ruined Mr. Darcy's own sister, and now attempted to run off with Elizabeth's youngest, most impressionable sister—it was preposterous! And to accuse him of falsifying debts when so many knew Mr. Wickham more than capable of collecting his own!

The room began to spin around Elizabeth in a most haphazard fashion.

"Such a horrible, deceitful man!" Mrs. Bennet proclaimed. "To take from poor Wickham even his last remaining comforts by inventing such means! He, who has never given a moment of his time to anyone or anything other than himself! No wonder Mr. Wickham has made for the continent. He is pursued by the very devil himself!"

Elizabeth could stomach no more. Pulling her attention from the tilt of the room, she sought to impart some reason into the proceedings.

"Mama," she cautioned. "Perhaps we are mistaken. Did Mr. Wickham not leave debts behind in Meryton as well? Surely Mr. Darcy's claims must be legitimate."

Unfortunately, her mother—after a long morning rife with woe and wailing—would not be kept from such an engaging amusement as upbraiding the character of the excessively unpopular Mr. Darcy.

"Hush, girl. I am sure Mr. Wickham meant to repay his creditors in Meryton when he returned to town with his wife."

Although Elizabeth knew that her mother likely believed this phantom wife of Meryton was to bear the name of Lydia Wickham, Aunt Phillips had no such information. Once again, she credited the rumours of Elizabeth Bennet's secret engagement to the unfortunate, pitiable, wounded character of Mr. Wickham. Certainly the course of true love never did run smooth! Such delicious tragedy!

"Yes, sister," Aunt Phillips agreed—primarily for the benefit of her poor dear niece, who must be suffering the most grievous feelings of loss and humiliation! "Of course that is what he meant to do! Were it not for that miserly Mr. Darcy squandering his own fortune and looking to poor Wickham for his rent! I always knew there was some meanness to him, sister."

"Yes! It is there in his eyes, as I have always said. Such cold, brutish manners! And always so far and away above his company! To think all the time he was devising such a cruel scheme!"

Elizabeth interjected herself into the fray once more, a desperate act on the behalf of her one true love that Mrs. Phillips found most heartbreaking.

"Mama, surely you do not believe Mr. Darcy has any need of Mr. Wickham's pocket. What of Pemberley and his ten-thousand a year?"

She dangled the bait before her mother on a gilded string, but even as Elizabeth formed the words a shadowed, ominous feeling fell over her. What of Pemberley indeed? Had he not told her himself that the great estate in Derbyshire, the very place he had remarked upon with such pride and reverence, was _no longer his concern_? Had she not been to the place herself and seen Lady Graham setting up house? Was he not, by his own admission, residing at Old Mr. Young's cottage and taking up the position of Mr. Bingley's steward? She had found his assertion to be some form of jest or the result of some unknown gentlemanly angst at the time—but now… could it be? Could Mr. Darcy truly be… _cleaned out?_

How had she not seen it before!

To say Elizabeth was excessively troubled would barely touch the tumultuous thrashing she felt from the tips of her fingers down to the pit of her gut. She closed her eyes and Jane watched as her sister's normally hale countenance went full pale.

"Better Mr. Wickham's pockets than pockets to let!" her aunt nearly shouted, oblivious to her niece's sudden turn towards ill-health. "It is said it was all lost at the tables, my dears. I hear such horrible, beastly tales of his life in town! Not only at the tables, mind you, but in houses fitted for _all_ manners of ill repute!"

"I have no trouble believing it, sister!" Mrs. Bennet fawned, "for as I have warned the girls—"

" _Stop!_ Stop this talk at once!"

The room and all the voices within it did as they were commanded—For it was dear, sweet Jane from whom such a startling reprimand had been issued, perhaps for the first time in her life.

"Jane?" her mother inquired cautiously. It seemed the poor girl was near to collapse under the stress of her upcoming, most fortuitous wedding. Dear girl! She must be taken home and tended to at once. But if they did so, there would be no time for ribbons today. Mrs. Bennet's mind began to hum with an eager quest for potential solutions.

Jane defied her all her mother's easy explanations when she continued her censure in a steady voice.

"Mr. Darcy is not what you say, Mama, Aunt. He is a gentleman and a friend to us."

Mrs. Bennet could not believe her ears, but she sought—as she so often did—to turn any activity or word of Jane's into a further sign of her impeccable virtue.

"Dear Jane! Of course such goodness and true sereneness of nature as yours must make you want to think well of even the dreadful scoundrel Mr. Darcy, but even you must see that—"

"What I see is the name of a good and kind man being maligned without cause, mother," Jane fumed. "Your condemnations of his character are wholly without foundation! For though Mr. Darcy may be… quiet amongst company, I have never known him to act in such a way as you suggest."

Jane met the wide-eyed stare of her sister, who nodded to her in half-agreement, half confusion. Emboldened by what she perceived to be Elizabeth's support, she continued on.

"None of us has! Indeed, he is a very honourable sort of man. If only you knew his generous nature! Surely you do not believe Mr. Bingley would stoop so low as to call… such a man as you describe, aunt—his dearest friend. Would he, Mama? Do you truly think Mr. Bingley so low of morals or character?"

Caught between the unhappy position of besmirching either the good name of the unfortunate redcoat who had been treated so poorly by his benefactor prior to capturing the heart of her Lydia, or the wealthy man who was soon to be her son-in-law, Mrs. Bennet was obligated to articulate a choice. She offered what little her conscience allowed.

"Of course not, Jane! But perhaps Mr. Bingley is not aware of the particulars!"

Jane was unmoved, and even Elizabeth was shaken by the cutting boldness of her reply.

"Mama, the truth is that if it were not for the kindness of Mr. Darcy, I would not be wedding Mr. Bingley at all. That Mr. Bingley returned to Netherfield and my engagement came about when it did was almost entirely his doing. Truly, he has been the best of friends to us, Mama. To all of us."

Silence fell upon the room once more as Jane concluded her startling announcement and the inhabitants considered this conflicting, confounding, _au courant_ information.

Jane held her head high, more than somewhat pleased with herself for expressing her thoughts so clearly on _two_ critical occasions that day. She would write to Charles as soon as she returned home and share the news of her independence.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bennet's face belied her befuddled state. To her credit, too much had happened today for her to feel any other way.

 _It was too much._

With no other occupation at the ready, she sipped her tea and silently criticized her sister's drapes.

Aunt Phillips regarded Jane with wide eyes, salivating hungrily and ready to snap her jaws through every drawing room in Meryton in order to feast on the most delicious gossip she had ever heard.

Mary turned a page.

Kitty coughed.

Elizabeth—no less mystified by Jane's astonishing proclamations than her mother—made room in her thoughts to formulate her second daring idea of the day.

And it involved Mr. Darcy.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Hey readers!

Thank you for all of your lovely comments & messages regarding the last few chapters. The drama picks back up soon, so I hope you're enjoying the relative calm of Hertfordshire as much as I am. Today's chapter is a loooong one, but I promise _lots_ of Darcy this go-around. Like, probably too much Darcy. I hope you won't be too disappointed.

A quick **recap** for today:

Darcy has lost Pemberley (duh) and is chilling in a cottage of Bingley's. Lydia's plans to run away with Wickham have been foiled, but her reputation is still in danger (as well as her sisters') because she's _Lydia_ and _can't stop running her mouth_. Jane's wedding to Bingley is moved forward in an effort to return her from Brighton ASAP. Mr. Bennet sulks. Mrs. Bennet  & Mrs. Phillips are horrible, spiteful gossips. Rumors in Meryton have half the Wickham story right, naming Elizabeth (not Lydia) as the woman Wickham was "secretly engaged to" and Darcy as the reason for his desertion. The news of Darcy's loss breaks, though the gossip once again bungles the particulars. Jane is a BAMF. Elizabeth has an idea.

Thanks for reading! Make sure to follow for updates if you don't already because new chapters are right around the corner - and please comment or message with your responses!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

 _"In nature and all things; which these soft fires  
_ _Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat  
_ _Of various influence foment and warm,  
_ _Temper or nourish, or in part shed down  
_ _Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow  
_ _On Earth, made hereby apter to receive  
_ _Perfection from the Sun's more potent ray."  
_ _– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV –_

 **Monday 3 August, 1812**  
 _ **Longbourn**_

Elizabeth Bennet had never been so angry in her life.

Her protracted tour of the parlours of Meryton had only served to exacerbate every unkind feeling she held towards her mother, Mrs. Phillips, and now Mrs. Lucas, Mrs. Long, Mrs. King, Mrs. Fellows, and at least half of Meryton. The day after church was the perfect day to trade tales over tea with your neighbours, which meant that one often had to set out very early in the morning in order to protect or defame a reputation. One had to rise even earlier if there was any truth to the matter, of course, and so the Bennets had found themselves back in Mrs. Phillips' parlour much closer to breaking their fasts than was fashionable. Fresh scandals, along with those still too exciting to be forgot, were bought and sold like wares—the early morning being the best time to make purchase. The best talk was generally introduced to company by eleven and _démodé_ by two, at the very latest. If you had heard nothing but civil whiskers regarding the weather or the flattering cut of Miss So-and-so's new dress—God help you.

As the ladies of Longbourn made their rounds through the upper echelons of village society, Elizabeth received more than one compliment on her dress, which was old, and several comments about the weather, which was average. It was clear by one o'clock that morning that the rumour of her supposed secret engagement to Mr. Wickham had not been a mere idle fancification dreamed up by her absurd, prattling aunt. No indeed. A subsequent visit with Lady Lucas revealed that half the town had them covertly married already, the clandestine lovers waiting only long enough for the militia and Mr. Darcy's hired men to lose the scent of her beloved that they might away to America. Or to the continent. Or to Scotland. The precise location of their intended sanctuary was nearly the only detail which had varied in the many whispers which had carried them across a sea of tea and slander. Unfortunately, it was also the least important.

Of Mr. Darcy even worse was said, and though it seemed impossible to surpass the censure and certain ruination indicated by Elizabeth's _secret marriage_ —especially given the frequent, furtive glances toward her midsection—even greater heights of devastating scandal implied. It had now become common knowledge amongst the village that Mr. Darcy was a rake of the highest order, a rogue in gentleman's clothing who had hardly met a maid he had not trifled with, a card table he had not cheated, a friend he had not deceived, or a tradesman's daughter he had not ruined. The Meryton gossips seemed to think nothing of the fact that a man who cheated at cards could hardly lose a fortune of some 200,000 odd pounds and an estate as grand as Pemberley in the eight month since his removal from Hertfordshire, but Elizabeth and Jane had repeatedly raised the point nonetheless.

Unfortunately, such logic fell on deaf ears and the two eldest Bennet sisters might as well have held their breaths to cool their porridge. Elizabeth's opinion on the gentleman-rake could hardly be credited. After all, as she could no longer be counted on to either understand or enforce the rules of propriety in accordance with her own person, how could she offer any reasonable perspective on the quite thoroughly debauched Mr. Darcy? To Jane's credit, she had tried to impart the same sensibilities to the overwrought wives and daughters of Meryton, but it was of little use. Jane was well known to be generous with her good opinion and the same women who slyly berated both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy could only commend her for the sweet, gentle kindness which rendered her own suppositions so entirely impractical.

Upon their return to Longbourn, Elizabeth's frantic steps had carried her from the carriage and to the back door of the house without a thought as to her destination or a word to her family. She had seen enough of her sisters' sympathetic glances and endured _much more than enough_ of her mother's prattle to last her a fortnight, if not longer. She encountered Hill at the pantry table and said nothing as she collected a basket, stocked it with provisions, and promptly exited through the same door she had entered only moments before.

Hill watched Elizabeth stomp her way back down the lane through the small kitchen window, the elderly woman's discerning expression the only indication of the many years she had spent observing her young mistress trace the same path in times of extreme vexation. It was a tack she lovingly referred to as the "raid-and-run" in conversations with her husband, which always painted the eldest two Miss Bennets in a most favourable light. The others, well… Hill could only shake her head and sigh, wondering what fresh argument would shake the foundation upon Miss Elizabeth's return.

Once Elizabeth was satisfied that enough distance separated her from Longbourn, she slowed her steps and endeavoured to impart some order to her thoughts. Setting her basket down on a stone marker, she wrenched her bonnet free and ran her hands over her face, eventually succumbing to the urge to bury her hands in her once carefully appointed curls. Her mother would be displeased when she returned home, but she could hardly please her at all on such a miserable day! As she herself cared nothing for coiffure at the moment, it seemed a reasonable sacrifice to make on behalf of her sanity.

As her posture began to relax, she realized she was standing at the same stile where she had met Mr. Darcy but two days earlier. It was even harder to believe that she had walked the same path only the morning before in order to watch the sunrise over Oakham Mount. She had held her breath against the thought of meeting Mr. Darcy in those easy, early hours when she had still been a respectable, virtuous, and un-engaged gentleman's daughter, but now that both their reputations were being dragged through the sitting rooms of Meryton she felt a sudden, urgent desire to set her eyes on the gentleman again.

And of course, there were the apologies she knew she needed to make, for Jane had asked—or rather, demanded—that all the Bennet family amend or at least improve relations with Mr. Darcy before she wed his dearest friend. Despite the fact that her eldest sister had looked directly at their mother when she made this pronouncement on their carriage ride home from Meryton, Elizabeth could not help but feel that some measure of her sister's disapprobation was likewise directed at her.

She did not enjoy disappointing Jane, and after such a day of shifting allegiances amongst her friends, relations, and even her own mother, Elizabeth was resolved to do as her sister directed. She had no wish to prolong any discomfort between herself and Mr. Darcy, after all. She had erred in her estimations of his character where Mr. Wickham was concerned and he had somehow corrected his course with regards to Jane, but the settling of neither account meant she had to _like_ him. He certainly had much less cause to like her, given that the man had proposed to her so fervidly in the spring only to be rejected on the basis of his obscure character, ungenerous opinions, and his own seemingly confused feelings towards her. With such a history she could hardly suppose that they should ever be friends, but as it appeared they would soon be in regular company she knew some semblance of peace must be established between them.

The problem was that she had no idea what to say. There was still much she did _not_ forgive him for and she was not sure that engaging in a discussion of any length with the gentleman would allow her to conceal such ignoble feelings. After all, he had slighted her as well as her family on more than one occasion, to say nothing of the fact that he frequently held himself above his company. But more to the point—Mr. Darcy riled her spirits in a way no other had done before and she worried that any attempt to apologize to him directly would end in yet another quarrel. Her first thought was to pen him a letter of her own, but upon closer examination this idea afforded its own set of risks and complications. Most of all, she had no desire to imitate any action which would raise the memory of either their shared afternoon at Hunsford or the morning which had followed.

This was the purpose of her basket and the first part of her plan to reconcile with Mr. Darcy—as much as the man _could_ be reconciled with. She had not yet decided if she would tell him of the talk in town, but the second part of her plan unfortunately necessitated the mention of Mr. Wickham. She thought it unlikely that she would avoid an argument with the gentleman should she bring his presumed gambling debts, dashed character, _and_ his wayward childhood-friend into the same conversation—and so perhaps it was best she not mention any other subject so unrelated to the already sufficiently inflammatory topics of Jane and Mr. Bingley or Mr. Wickham and Lydia.

Her continued thoughts on this subject were interrupted by a deep voice which she recognized immediately by the way her throat went dry and the hair at the back of her neck rose on end.

"Enjoying the view, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth jerked her attention forward with such haste that she nearly lost her balance and ended in the brush. The sudden appearance of Mr. Darcy—once more without his coat and decidedly underdressed for receiving company—was startling to say the least. Initially, she met the eyes of his horse, but soon raised her head to meet his gaze wearing a look of unintentional, yet entirely unavoidable, indignation.

She banished all thoughts of his fine seat, his _once again_ casually rolled sleeves, and the pursed lips she knew meant to contain a smile—as well as the undesirable flutterings such a display stirred in her breast—to the darkest chambers of her mind. His cool demeanor and light teasing irritated her almost as soon as she laid eyes on him and she momentarily considered taking her leave without so much as acknowledging his presence. But before she could act, she remembered Jane and decided it would not do to repay her sister's kindness with ingratitude.

She would complete her task.

"Hardly, Mr. Darcy," she lied.

She would complete her task _to the best of her ability_.

Unfortunately, Darcy was not dissuaded by her arched brow, sparkling eyes, or her open appraisal of his person. He reminded himself that he was now wholly immune to such charms and his own voice remained detached as he continued his provocation against his better judgement.

"No? It is a wonder then that you have stopped your walk in the middle of the road. Are you fatigued so soon, Miss Bennet? Shall I fetch someone from Longbourn to collect you?"

"I am quite well," she snipped. "I have only stopped to gather my thoughts."

He raised a brow at this, and Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips in retribution.

"And have you finished collecting them? Perhaps you might move out of the road so that those of us with more pressing occupations might have the use of it."

Her mission to make peace with Mr. Darcy now quite forgotten—and the prolonged sense of powerless irritation she had experienced for hours still quite fresh in her memory—Elizabeth's tongue freed itself for a lashing.

"And what is your pressing occupation today, Mr. Darcy? Does Mr. Bingley again require the urgent use of your coat?"

Both brows raised at this, and Mr. Darcy's lips drew further together in a rigid set. Elizabeth could no longer tell if the man was attempting to hold in a barb or a laugh, but comforted herself with the knowledge that she did not care either way.

"No, Miss Bennet," he responded in his characteristically aloof manner. "I am moving these posts for planting."

He gestured behind his steed and Elizabeth noticed the small cart for the first time. As Mr. Darcy had indicated, a stack of small posts filled the bay. She blushed furiously with embarrassment and anger. She had been standing in the middle of the road, entirely indifferent to her surroundings. It could have been anyone who came around the bend in the road, but of course, _it had to be Mr. Darcy._

What a miserable day this was turning out to be.

It appeared Mr. Darcy had no intention of allowing matters to improve.

In the work of one swift, elegant move, the gentleman had dismounted and retrieved his coat from the back of the cart. Pulling it on as quickly and gracefully as the fashion allowed, he stepped forward to greet Miss Bennet properly with a deep bow.

Elizabeth, given her decidedly uncivil response to his greeting, was mortified by such consideration. And so, steeling herself against his many vexations, she responded in kind. She would obtain a truce with Mr. Darcy and bring it back to Jane as a prize of war.

"I am sorry," she stammered uncomfortably. "That was ungenerous of me, Mr. Darcy. In truth, I have come to apologize. Here," she said, holding out the basket she had carried from irritation with stiff arms. "This is for you."

Darcy ran a hand through his hair in an effort to steady his mind as well as his appearance. Though he took the basket and placed it in the cart, Mr. Darcy offered nothing in response to her apology and Elizabeth began to wonder if she had imagined speaking the words at all.

Why must he make everything so difficult! Did he expect her to continue? List her misdeeds and faulty presumptions against his character? Enumerate her many failings and recount the slanderous venom she had unleashed against him in near every sitting room and assembly in Meryton? All while absolving himself of any guilt or responsibility he might feel for his own careless actions and words which fed her misconceptions? Pompous, disagreeable man! How could she ever think to lower herself to such an arrogant, disdainful—

"I thank you for the basket, Miss Bennet. Would you like to take a closer look?"

Mr. Darcy adjusted his sleeves, his attention seemingly fixed on nothing more captivating than arranging the material about his wrists to its best advantage. His offhand, causal inquiry achieved its objective—a stunned, distracted, and thoroughly bewildered Elizabeth Bennet.

"Excuse me?" she blinked.

"The garden," Darcy replied, in a voice she almost found warm. "Would you do me the honour of taking a turn with me? I should like to hear your opinion on the place."

As Elizabeth had no room in her head for thoughts at present, she allowed her first instinct to respond on her behalf. She nodded. Mr. Darcy mirrored her motion and took his horse by the reins to move both beast and cart down the lane to the cottage. She followed, and they walked together in silence, the outward expressions of each failing to disclose the violent uproarious feelings which churned within them. Elizabeth, in a struggle to right herself and remember her good intentions, allowed her eyes to find him only once he had turned his back to tie the animal off on a waiting post.

His back to Elizabeth, Darcy attempted to steady himself with a deep, fortifying breath. He received little more than a quivering rattle of his chest in return.

 _This would not do._

He had hoped to avoid her presence as much as possible now that he knew she had returned to Hertfordshire. In fact, he had already considered several potential alternatives to remaining in this part of the country himself. His thoughts regarding any plans for his removal had reached their pinnacle in the early hours of the previous morning, when he had set out on his usual ride only to encounter the very subject of his consternation posed so prettily atop a boulder overlooking Oakham Mount.

He had remained out of sight, not trusting himself in her company when she presented such a picture, bathed in the dawn light like some ancient goddess beckoning the new day. Áine, Queen of the Irish faeries, perhaps? Or the Greek Athena—though the Greek goddess might be considered a bit too temperate when considered alongside his fiery Elizabeth. Or—Aurora! Yes, she was his Roman Aurora. He had imagined her riding atop a golden chariot, scattering rose petals as she flew across a twilight sky, the heavens wrapped about her like a great cloak as she brought on the dawn with a smile. _Aurora_. He would happily worship at her feet for the rest of the days if she had allowed him half a chance.

But of course—he reminded himself—she had _not_.

And so, he was reduced to from servant to spy as his heart's desire enjoyed the entertainment of the dawn. He had watched her until she had disappeared into the tree-line. He knew from his own rambles that her path led to a sheltered path flanked by wildflowers. This image had not lessened his passionate adulation for her. Instead, he had felt almost himself again—for a few, small moments after the dawn. It was not until she had disappeared completely that he begrudgingly remembered his complete and total loss of prospects—and that should he have _ever_ been capable of pleasing such a woman worthy of being pleased, that opportunity was now lost to him entirely.

At that moment, he had vowed to avoid her company at all costs. And now here she was before him, barely a full day later, once again bathed in the dappled sunlight as if she meant to tempt him from his fledgling plans—and he had not held up his end of the bargain. Instead, he had practically invited her to tea.

 _It would not do._

He would send her on her way as soon as could be.

He turned to make his apologies to her… and immediately lost all resolve. They had met twice on the lane now, and each time the lady seemed determined to act as though his… regard for her had gone unexpressed, his letter undelivered, and his abominable words unspoken. At present, he found had no will to check her.

"This way, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth followed Darcy around the bend of a small lane which led to the rear of the cottage and took in the sight before her. She had not been to Mr. Young's cottage in some years, being driven away by his admonishment of her berry-picking endeavors and the gradual waning of her youth. Though it had been perhaps five years since she had last encountered the patch of earth behind the cottage, she presumed it would not have looked much different but for the work of Mr. Darcy over the past several weeks.

And how different it was!

The thick brush she remembered had been cleared away and replaced by a considerable number of verdant, orderly planted rows, while several tall wooden box steps had been raised above the ground against the back walls of the cottage, their burgeoning contents ready to escape their enclosures at a moment's notice. Her steps were light but deliberate as she moved into the center of the lawn and examined each row, trying to name the plants she knew and taking careful notice of those she did not. As her shock began to give way to appreciation, she spotted her quarry—there! Near the rear of the lawn, growing at the base of a crumbling stone wall, were the berry bushes she had coveted in her youth. Haphazard patches of wildflowers grew around them, and a thick, irregular patchwork of vines dotted with small flowers framed them from the stone wall above. Elizabeth had never seen anything like it. Mr. Darcy's garden was half-formal, half-wild. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking. She was enchanted in every way.

"Miss Bennet?"

It had taken him three attempts to gain her attention, but when Elizabeth Bennet finally turned her gaze to meet his… He was hardly put out. The soft expression captured in her brilliant, dazzling eyes stunned him—and for the first time he was not quite sure of their colour. Elizabeth's eyes seemed to take on every hue of the seedlings, shoots, and shrubbery which surrounded them in what he was to forever consider his very own Eden. She was beautiful. She was breathtaking. He was enchanted in every way.

"I must apologize _again_ , Mr. Darcy. It seems I was not attending."

"Your apology is quite unnecessary, Miss Bennet, I assure you," he offered uneasily. "Perhaps I should escort you back to the lane? Or to tree-line?"

"No!" Elizabeth cried, thinking of the fresh hysterics her mother would no doubt unleash should she chance to walk up the drive on Mr. Darcy's arm—a man now considered a seducer and a scoundrel of the highest order by most of Meryton. She cleared her throat and tried again. "No, that will not be necessary."

Noticing the confused look which crossed his features, she sought to distract him by offering up a more pleasant topic for conversation.

"I… I do not have the words to express my admiration for this place," she began tentatively. "Indeed, I am all astonishment! I had no idea that gentlemen of your circle counted such green pursuits amongst their accomplishments."

He winced slightly at her words, but responded in a sufficiently even tone. "I thank you, Miss Bennet. I suppose I should be gratified you find me so tolerably well accomplished in such _green pursuits_ , as you call them."

Elizabeth very nearly rolled her eyes. _This_ was what resulted when she tried to compliment the man? Perhaps it was lucky for both of them that she had never done so before.

"You misunderstand my meaning once again, Mr. Darcy," she piqued. "I assure you that my compliment was sincerely meant, and I will apologize _yet again_ for giving offense, if some offense was given. Truly, I have never seen anything of its kind before. Might you be prevailed upon to offer me a tour? Or should you like to remain here and in hopes of finding some additional fault with—"

"Come, Miss Bennet," Darcy interrupted with a reticent smile she found most unsettling. "There is no offense taken, but let us not argue the issue of arguments. I am sure there are still many other, more agreeable subjects for us to disagree upon."

He offered his arm and motioned to the worn garden path before them.

"If you consent to take that turn with me, we are sure to discover one or two."

Elizabeth raised her chin in a motion of victory, agitation, or bravery—she could not say which.

"I thank you, yes. I would be delighted."

The pair passed the following quarter hour in relatively good company. Elizabeth inquired as to the names of the plants she had not recognized on her first turn and Mr. Darcy expounded on their identities, various uses, and the appropriate methods for their cultivation. She learned that his father had founded an agricultural society in Derbyshire while Darcy was still a boy, and that they had frequently travelled to a family estate in the Scottish Lowlands in order to obtain information on the most recent and reliable farming practices. They discussed the importance of increased yields to support the war effort, the practicality of turnip crops for the reclamation of soil and the keeping of livestock, the price of butter, and even their individual preferences for nursery crops.

Elizabeth, who had never heard Mr. Darcy speak more than ten words together in a single sitting, reached all-together new levels of astonishment and amusement in their conversation. Moreover, she found herself… rather enjoying his company, this gentleman-farmer who could barely be prevailed upon to utter a single word in a ballroom but seemed to become almost as loquacious as her mother in the midst of a bramble.

 _Who is this man?_ Elizabeth found herself wondering—not for the first time—as she stared off at some unfixed mark in the distance. _How am I ever to make out his character if the subject varies so widely owing to his location?_

Of course, the thought that either Mr. Darcy's location or his company could influence his behaviour only brought forth additional fresh topics for Elizabeth to ponder. His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had said as much himself.

 _And what of the rumours from Meryton? Surely a man so devoted to the study of cereal crops and clover could not be a cad._

She shook her head. It seemed equally unlikely that Mr. Darcy, who had hardly ever played at cards in her presence, could be a gambler of the worst variety. But what of Pemberley then? And why was he _here_?

Darcy, ever-cognizant of his frayed nerves in her company, could not help but ramble on. He was decidedly in need of a distraction from the rather too amorous thoughts which had beset him after spying Elizabeth on the road—and equally afraid of what might become of their conversation if it turned to any topic other than carrots and corn. Eventually, he had felt himself relax in her company and was surprised by the ease with which he had spoken of his agricultural interests, his experiences in Scotland and at school, and even his father. After so many weeks spent in near isolation, he found conversation to be a very pleasant sort of diversion from one's own dark, destructive reflections. He looked down at her, hoping to catch her eye as he reiterated the importance of adequate drainage systems in heavy clay soils, only to discover that he was not the only one becoming sufficiently distracted by their conversation.

"My apologies, Miss Bennet. I am surely boring you."

"No!" she cried out for the second time that afternoon. Shaking her head at her blunder, she attempted to smooth over yet another of his misconceptions. "You are not boring me in the least, Mr. Darcy. I only wondered… what is it you mean to do here? In Hertfordshire? That is—I mean to say, at Netherfield… Sir?"

Thankfully, he seemed to understand her question—though she blushed at her own careless phrasing. She felt his arm tense slightly beneath her fingertips, but his manner remained unaffected as he spoke.

"With the passing of Mr. Morris and his forthcoming marriage to your sister, Mr. Bingley is anxious to decide on a plan for Netherfield. Well, perhaps I should say that the _heir_ of Mr. Morris is anxious for Mr. Bingley to decide on a course of action for his inheritance."

Darcy did not mention that the whole affair—along with Bingley's upcoming nuptials, the effusions of his future mother-in-law, and the admonishments of his sisters—had left his friend feeling excessively anxious about most things. 'Most things' being anything other than Jane Bennet.

"And the garden is meant to help him decide?" she inquired with confused pout which set his heart through its paces.

 _This would not do._

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to think of more sensible matters.

"In a way, yes," he replied without meeting her gaze. "It appears Mr. Young had no fondness for any of the modern agricultural methods. The yield is decent enough to sustain the current tenants and provide a small additional income for Mr. Morris—now Mr. Barry, but I believe it could be much improved with the aid of new techniques and a competent manager. In its present condition, it is impossible to say how much the yield might be increased. Mr. Young's disregard for the modern sciences seems to have extended to include any interest in the keeping of efficient records as well."

Though Elizabeth could not help but agree with Mr. Darcy's assessment of the dispassionate Mr. Young, she bristled at the offense on his behalf. Must he always be giving offense? Mr. Young might not have been as steadfast as a Darcy, but he was one of her own.

"If Mr. Bingley is only to lease the estate, it can be of no concern to him what Mr. Young or the tenant farmers do with the property."

Mr. Darcy regarded her with an expression of amusement that set her on fire. She released his arm as they stopped to examine some very fine specimens of root vegetables.

"True, but Mr. Bingley is not speaking of leasing," Darcy replied evenly, though the corners of his mouth seemed to betray his diversion. "In order to purchase the estate, he will need to know the ideal practices owing to the construction of the soil, landscape, and climate. There are many changes which must be made; repairs to the tenant cottages and outbuildings, the fallowing of fields, the production of more profitable crops—and changes cost money, Miss Bennet. Mr. Bingley wisely observed that he should have some idea of the materials and figures needed to take on such projects before he is to make a firm purchase offer. You would not have him brought to _Point Non Plus_ , I imagine."

"What types of changes?" Elizabeth asked, thinking of the tenant families of Netherfield, some of which she had known all her life. Surely they were not modern or fashionable—as far as farming could be considered fashionable—but they were good people who worked the land with pride. She decided to be clear, lest he once again mistake her meaning. "Some of the tenant families at Netherfield have been here for generations, Mr. Darcy. Will you be reporting on _them_ to Mr. Bingley as well?"

Mr. Darcy raised a brow at this, but his answer was similarly direct.

"I do not mean to criticize Mr. Barry's tenant farmers or challenge their present methods—only to observe, test my own theories, and inform Mr. Bingley of the results. I do not believe he would dismiss any tenant from the property unduly, though of course it is his decision to make when, or if, he should decide to take the responsibility on."

Elizabeth, only slightly mollified by the response, decided to press her luck.

"You believe he will take Netherfield then?"

"If he is satisfied that Netherfield might become a profitable estate sufficient for his future, I believe he will take it, yes."

She stopped to examine a patch of white clover hay and attempted an air of indifference.

"And if he does not take Netherfield? Where will… Will you return to town?"

Mr. Darcy said nothing for a long moment, and Elizabeth began to worry she had offended him again. But who could be offended by such a simple question?! Was he considering his response? Did he mean to stay at Netherfield with Mr. Bingley should he make the offer, or would he return to town, or possibly Pemberley, at the end of the season? If only he could give her some hint of his intentions without her broaching the vicious gossip filling the homes and mouths of Meryton!

"Come, Miss Bennet." Darcy offered his arm once more. "I imagine you would like to visit your berries."

They walked on in something short of companionable silence.

It was a short time later that Elizabeth gathered her will once again. She had more than a mission of apology to complete. She pinched a particularly plump blackberry between her fingers before instinctively pressing it to her lips.

Darcy was entranced—until she opened her mouth again to speak.

"Mr. Darcy, there is a matter I would… I beg you to excuse me, but I would like to address a matter you wrote to me of last April."

She turned her head away from him, which was just as well, because Darcy went full pale at her words. He felt an overwhelming need to sit down, but he could hardly do so in her company. What could she possibly mean by bringing up _his letter_? The mere mention of such an artifact brought forth the spectre of that day, the day which had haunted and tormented him beyond reason—the day which tormented him still. Nevertheless… she _had_ read the letter. No, he had to stop this immediately.

 _It would not do._

"Miss Bennet, perhaps it is best if we do not discuss... I would rather not trouble you with the memory of that day. The things I said then—"

"Pray, Mr. Darcy, allow me to continue," she rushed. "What I have to ask of you involves Mr. Wickham."

"Wickham!"

She waved his protestations off with a sigh and averted her eyes as she charged forward.

"Yes, sir. You see, the militia departed from Meryton some three months ago and my father... well, the shopkeepers in Meryton have made no secret of Mr. Wickham's debts."

Darcy's steely gaze found hers in a flash and she struggled to find the words necessary to continue. It was clear that he had no wish to speak to her of Mr. Wickham, but there was nothing for it. It was more important than she could say.

"The villagers have come to my father for help," she continued, testing him. It was not entirely the truth, but it was not entirely a lie, either. Given her recent, turbulent history with Mr. Darcy, she suddenly thought it best to avoid any direct mention of Lydia.

"I see," he finally said. "And has Mr. Wickham's regiment been contacted regarding these outstanding debts?"

"He has deserted the militia, sir," she replied, her voice nearing a whisper, "but two days ago. The townspeople fear that they will never be paid what they are owed, and... the sums are considerable."

Her easiest portion of confession now made, Elizabeth returned to her examination of Mr. Darcy, though it seemed _he_ was now equally determined to avoid looking at _her_. Darcy clenched his jaw and Elizabeth watched as the muscles flexed and released, flexed and released. Abstractly, she enjoyed the rare display of emotion from such a taciturn man, even if the only feeling she ever seemed to rouse in him was anger. Her secondary observations were more to the point—she worried he might crack a tooth.

Darcy swallowed. The air felt too thick to breathe.

Would he _never_ escape George Darcy's ghost? _Wickham._ It was always Wickham who haunted him, but he performed the task in his father's name. Every advantage he had ever given the boy, every opportunity he had allowed him to squander—his father had created George Wickham, but his weight had always hung around Darcy's neck.

And now—Elizabeth Bennet had come to him with that name on her lips.

 _Wickham._

"And there is another matter," Elizabeth said hesitantly. "A young girl... a friend..."

Darcy began to pace along the planted rows.

"This girl," he said stiffly. _Elizabeth had called her a girl._ "How old is she?"

"She is young, sir. Barely sixteen," Elizabeth answered, hoping she had not given too much away.

Mr. Darcy seemed to look everywhere but at her. After a long moment had passed, he cleared this throat and rolled his eyes to the heavens before closing them entirely.

"It seems he was chased out... he felt he was being chased out of the militia by some rather unfortunate debts. I wondered if such a man as he was indebted to, or had been in the past, might have any information regarding his whereabouts, or any places he might go at such a time. There may be...cause for the girl's family to find him."

Elizabeth's words achieved half of their aim. Mr. Darcy's rigid movements ceased for the moment, but he seemed no more inclined to share his private thoughts with her now than he had while parading through the vegetables.

His next words seemed to pain him and were delivered with great hesitancy. Elizabeth could not help but be reminded of Hunsford. She blushed.

And what a fine time to blush it was!—apparently for both of them.

"And this friend of yours," he grimaced. "Is she..."

Elizabeth only stared.

At length, Mr. Darcy continued.

"Of course I will make inquiries as soon as may be and convey any information I might find to your father, Miss Bennet, but… am I to understand… Has Wickham...the girl...Do you believe there might be... have they… I mean to say—of course, that is…" Darcy ceased his stammering and ran a hand through his hair.

He could not have this conversation with Elizabeth Bennet.

"I... Perhaps I should speak to Mr. Bennet?"

Elizabeth quite openly rolled her eyes.

She had hoped that he might have some information—not least of all Wickham's whereabouts—to offer. And she hardly believed her father would be of any use in a conversation such as this! He was more likely to offer Mr. Darcy a glass of brandy and inquire as to his opinion on Aristotle. No, she would have Mr. Darcy speak plainly to her if it cost every last shred of her dignity.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, mimicking his grave tone. "My father may be a small country gentleman, but I would ask that you remember he is no less of a steward of the land as you. We have sheep, and pigs, and cows aplenty at Longbourn and they did not appear there by themselves. I may be a gentleman's daughter but I have had occasion to step outside the drawing room once or twice. I do not know if there will be any… results from Mr. Wickham's entanglement with...my friend, but her family must find him nonetheless. To resolve any other part of the mystery... well, we will have to see in the spring."

Darcy's eyes widened with shock and Elizabeth blushed further at her own crassness, despite achieving her intended effect. He turned his gaze to her and opened his mouth to speak.

And closed it again.

And opened.

Finally—to her horror—he laughed!

"Of course, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to imply…" Mr. Darcy delivered with a throaty chuckle. Elizabeth, for the first time, took note of a pair of deep, nearly cheerful dimples carved into his countenance. If he were considered a handsome man when he scowled, she— _This would not do!_

"Perhaps it is for the best if we do not consider what you did or did not mean to imply, Mr. Darcy," she said casually, her attention now drawn to her skirts.

Darcy rapidly nodded his agreement and returned to his usually somber mien.

"An excellent idea, Miss Bennet."

They regarded one another for perhaps the first time in the whole course of their conversation. Despite the terrible news of Wickham and the fixed intentions of both, they exchanged tentative smiles.

Darcy clasped his hands behind his back and cocked his head, appearing every part the parlour gentleman. She glimpsed a sparkle in his eye that afforded him a look of… good humour? He really appeared almost pleasant, if one were not acquainted with the man.

"Although I must say I am quite delighted to find such a passionate student of animal husbandry just down the lane. Perhaps I might trouble you with some of my more pressing questions come the fall?"

Elizabeth, glad to leave the previous subject of conversation behind, rose to the challenge quite admirably, even if she did think so herself.

"Of course, Mr. Darcy," she quipped. "Though while I find it hard to believe I should be any better acquainted with the subject than a man of your… sense and education, I am always glad to assist a neighbour when I am able."

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the swift and starling appearance of a young, grey-patched tabbycat. It purred and mewed and scratched at the ground before them. Mr. Darcy gaped at the animal—and was mortified when it rubbed its small, downy body against his legs. For a moment, he seemed to want to continue without acknowledging the sudden, apparently familiar presence of the tabby at his feet.

"Mr. Darcy, would you care to make the introductions?" Elizabeth teased with an arch smile. "I don't believe the gentleman and I are acquainted."

Darcy's discomfort was visible as he shifted his weight from side to side. He looked almost sheepish, really. Elizabeth bit the side of her cheek to keep from laughing. The gentleman was certainly full of surprises today!

"There seems nothing I can do," he explained in a voice Elizabeth found all too serious for the occasion. "The fellow returns, day after day."

Elizabeth regarded the unlikely pair—the imposing Master of Pemberley and his stray country mouser—and found she could no longer stop the laugh she held inside from escaping.

"Yes," she chirped, "it is quite troublesome really, given the lack of a proper invitation."

She had stayed too long herself, she thought. Though she _had_ received an invitation, after all.

"He seems amiable enough for an interloper, Mr. Darcy. May I touch him?"

Darcy stopped short of telling her that she could touch anything of his that she wished and opted instead to reach down and retrieve the kitten from where it had engaged itself with his legs.

He held out the bundle in silence.

Elizabeth reached out a hand.

When his hands brushed hers he passed the still mewing morsel to her, there seemed little Darcy could do to conceal his reaction. He had spent more time in her solitary company than ever before—perhaps an hour now—and it had already become difficult to hide his growing enchantment with the lady. His palms lingered under hers as she took the bundle from him. He hoped she would be distracted enough by the tumbling, wailing lump of fur to keep her from noticing how he felt at the moment he cupped her hands in his—or when he could not stop his traitorous fingertips from brushing over her delicate wrist. In the entire year of their acquaintance, he had never so much as grazed her hand with his own. Now that he understood the sensation, he could not stop himself from wanting to repeat the activity as often as possible.

As he removed his hands from hers, he cleared his throat and hesitantly raised his eyes back to her. What he saw surprised him. Darcy watched in an ashamed, admiring silence as a deep blush spread across her exposed skin. Her attention was fully on the kitten she now held in her arms, but one thing was certainly clear—Elizabeth _had_ noticed. And she was not as immune to him as she would have him think.

Against his better judgement, Darcy smiled.

The kitten swatted playfully at her fingers.

Elizabeth glanced up at him with an artfully raised brow and a knowing smile.

"You say he just keeps returning? Unbidden? How terrible for you, Sir! Such imposition on a gentleman's time is hardly _de rigueur_."

Darcy felt… he felt… He did not know how he felt. He certainly felt very much in danger of falling in as much love with Elizabeth Bennet as ever. Except that now—there was nothing he could do about it. He could hardly offer for her in his reduced circumstances, and she likely wouldn't have him anyway. But still, she _had_ blushed at his touch. Had she felt what he did? Was she merely embarrassed for him? Should he try again?

 _No_ , there was nothing to be done for it. He was no longer Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and she remained—loathe as he was to admit it—entirely out of his reach.

It was time she knew. It was time he addressed the very subject that had kept him from sleep the night before and set him out on the path to Oakham Mount that very morning. It was time to discuss Elizabeth's visit to Pemberley.

"Miss Bennet," Darcy began.

She looked up from the kitten and he soon felt all the power of Elizabeth Bennet's undivided attention. It was not good for his nerves and certainly did no favours for his delivery. His legs itched to move, but he refused their urgent requests. He would tell her to her face. He would watch as she lost any respect she might have held for him. He would be cured of this madness once and for all.

"I must tell you that... Miss Bennet, my residence in Hertfordshire is not entirely of my own choosing."

"No?" Elizabeth's brow wrinkled in confusion. It was an expression she wore so rarely that he was momentarily transfixed.

She stared.

He coughed.

She tipped her head.

He continued.

"No," Darcy replied, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "You have been to Pemberley, of course, and though I would not ask you to reveal any confidence of your own… I must tell you that the woman there, Lady Graham, is not known to me. I believe she is the relation of a Mr. Hadley, a gentleman who has taken possession of… That is to say, _he_ now has control over Pemberley."

The final syllables of his closing words were drawn out into what felt to Elizabeth like a long, mournful goodbye. Mr. Darcy's chest seemed to rattle as they left him. For a moment she was not certain he would speak again.

" _Pemberley?_ "Elizabeth repeated. It was as if she had never heard the word before. Worse—The ground underneath her feet seemed to be spinning.

Pemberley was no longer in Mr. Darcy's care? What of his staff, his tenants, his neighbors and friends? But surely the loss of Pemberley—if that was indeed what he was saying—could have nothing to do with her kind, wounded, perpetually grieving friend. Her thoughts clouded and swirled in a dance of puzzled wonder. How did one _lose_ an estate to the _control_ of another, especially an estate the size of Pemberley? Did he mean to imply that the soft, solemn, kind-hearted Marian had _taken_ Pemberley from him? Impossible!

"But she never mentioned anything of the kind!" Elizabeth cried out, suddenly distressed that at least _some_ part of the rumours concerning Mr. Darcy seemed to be proving true. "And this Mr. Hadley? Who is he?"

"I fear…" Darcy hesitated, averting his eyes. "I am sorry, Miss Bennet. Was this Lady Graham… was she aware of your… acquaintance with me?"

Elizabeth's colour flared. She placed the kitten back on the ground to keep from dropping him or holding him too tightly.

"I—yes, Sir. Yes, she was aware that we held some… acquaintance," Elizabeth stammered in her distraction.

Darcy's next words might as well have been pulled from him under extreme duress, which, in part, they were. He gave into his frantic desire to exert his restless energy and began to pace before her, muttering almost to himself.

"You will forgive me for asking, Miss Bennet, but how much of our _acquaintance_ was the Lady aware of?"

Elizabeth regarded him with wide, questioning eyes. Their acquaintance?— _Oh!_

"Only a very little, I imagine," she rushed. "But Mr. Darcy, might I ask to what these questions tend?"

"And you have mentioned a correspondence with this Lady Graham."

It did not escape Elizabeth's notice that he phrased this point as a statement and not a question—nor that he had not answered hers. If any of this shocked her, she was appalled by the words he chose next.

His pacing stopped and a pair of cold eyes flashed to meet hers.

"Miss Bennet," he said seriously. "You must not write to Lady Graham. Not ever. In fact, you must not contact her again. Do you understand?"

A long moment passed while Darcy and Elizabeth stared at one another.

Darcy sought the words he had meant to say but had since abandoned him, while Elizabeth grew increasingly impatient for him to accomplish the same aim.

In the end, it was hardly surprising that Elizabeth would find her tongue first. It had been a very long day.

"You ask me if I _understand_ , Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy tensed, waiting for the storm he knew was to come. Had he learned nothing from Hunsford? He knew his delivery was not… expert, and certainly she had questions… Very well, he would try again.

"Yes! It is only that… I believe she is not to be trusted, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth stared.

Darcy struggled to find his words—where was he to begin? _How_ was he to begin?

Elizabeth bit her tongue.

Darcy paced.

Darcy began—and paused.

Darcy paced.

Elizabeth fumed.

Darcy ran a hand through his hair—and paced.

Elizabeth raged.

"Mr. Darcy, is this all you have to say on the subject?" she implored. "Will you not tell me why I am not to contact a _friend_ who has been nothing but kind to me? Will you not tell me why, without so much as a word of explanation, I am expected to question the motives of a dear Lady who has never had occasion to say anything against you or any other person? Why I am—"

"Miss Bennet," he interrupted, rather more sternly than he intended. Did she not see what they were playing at by inviting _her_ to Pemberley? The very woman who held his heart? Must he explain it to her and humiliate himself _again_? He did not know how Mr. Hadley knew of Elizabeth Bennet or Darcy's tendre for her, but clearly he must. And that meant Elizabeth was in danger. He only knew that he must protect her. He was blind to everything else—even her protestations.

Elizabeth might well have understood his concerns—or even alleviated them—had he allowed her the opportunity. Instead, as was usually the case with Darcy, he chose the worst possible words with which to communicate his tortured feelings to her.

"I would not wish to trouble you with my misfortunes."

And there they were.

The change in her countenance was immediate—her eyes flashed from curiosity, to concern, to outrage. Suddenly, he felt the full force of his error—his ill words from Hunsford echoing in his ears at that moment, as they did hers.

 _"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"_

Her eyes narrowed.

He gaped.

She opened her mouth to speak—

And someone called her name.

"Lizzy! Lizzy!"

Darcy's part-confession, part-apology, part-argument thus interrupted, he said a silent thank you to the good Lord above—as well as to the two youngest Bennet sisters—as the pair approached the cottage. He had never been glad to see them, but today was full of surprises.

"Come Lizzy!" the shorter one cried. "For Mama says it is time to ready for dinner! I have not had two minutes together to fix my ribbons and you will make us all late!"

"We should not be slaves to show vanity," the other scolded loudly, "for such trappings of tinsel are not prudent, nor worthy, nor wise. A lady must—"

"Come, Lizzy!" the first interrupted impatiently. He found he rather preferred this one. "Mama says you will hardly be fit to see Mr. Barry if you do not return to the house at once—"

 _Mr. Barry?_ He no longer preferred this one.

"—and no one else may ready until you and Jane do! Oh, Lizzy! We will miss all the dancing!"

 _Dancing with Mr. Barry?_ No, this sister would not do at all. In fact, he believed he might prefer the youngest one, Lydia, stupid as she was.

Elizabeth, ignorant to any of these thoughts, only saw that his brow had crumpled in vexation. The sight was enough to cool her blood, and suddenly she felt all the shame and discomfiture of her own words to Mr. Darcy—both today and at Hunsford. _What must he think of her?_ She hardly knew, but she imagined he had congratulated himself more than once for avoiding being bound to her shrewish temper for all eternity.

"I heard you well enough the first time, Kitty. There is no need to wake the parson."

Turning to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth completed a quick curtsy, offering what she hoped was an apologetic glance as he bowed in return—but when she made her way to the lane to join her sisters, each step felt heavier than the last.

Suddenly, she recalled his words from their meeting the day before, when they had quarreled on the stile. He had not wanted to part once more in anger, and—she was surprised to find—neither did she.

And so, she turned back to face him.

"Mr. Darcy," she said tentatively. "I think I have discovered the root of the problem with your visitor."

She watched as his brow creased and he shook his head in confusion.

"Yes, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth gestured to the small dish he had placed at the base of the cottage gate. He was surprised she had noticed it at first, but of course she noticed everything.

"If one does not want to catch the cat, sir, one might avoid putting out the cream." She looked him directly in the eyes to ensure he caught her meaning.

He nodded slowly, and Elizabeth found herself admiring the way his soft smile slowly melted the otherwise stern set of his features.

"Unless of course, you _do_ mean to make a friend, Mr. Darcy," she continued with a smile of her own—one of such unanticipated, genuine warmth of feeling that he thought his heart might burst from his chest. "I should say this is a very good start."

And without any further parting, prickling or playful reproofs from either party, she turned to join her sisters and was gone.

Darcy, feeling rather like he had got the cream himself, both hoped and feared that she would come back again. Until she did, he had much to think on—Hyatt Hadley's intentions not least of all. And, for that matter, _John Barry's_. Still, he could not help the wide, toothy smile from overtaking his features any more than he could stop the warm feeling in his gut spreading to his toes.

"A friend?" he said to himself, fully aware that he must be grinning like a fool. "Yes, Miss Bennet, I believe I might like that very well indeed."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Hello again, lovely readers!

As you may have noticed (and I know many of you have), it's been a few weeks since I've updated PL. Without going off on too much of a tangent, I've had a rough few months. I didn't have it in me to write at the time, but editing became a great distraction. If you're up for a re-read, the main change is that more dialogue has been added and some chapters were split in two (hence the notifications). The structure and content of the story remains the same (and will never change), so don't worry that you're missing anything if you don't feel like rewinding back to the prologue. I waited to post this new chapter until I had edited all of the past chapters because I didn't want y'all to get a bunch of new chapter notifications and end up disappointed. It's a shorty, but it gets us on pace for some big new developments that I hope you're going to love.

SO, with all that said, I hope you enjoy the new chapter (and the others, if you're interested). Also, I'm going to beta-test PL chapters before posting moving forward (because I love a good edit), so let me know if you're interested by messaging me (privately) or emailing me at / merytonmilliners - at - g mail

You know the drill! Enjoy!

xo brynn

* * *

REFRESHER BLURB:

Lizzy rejects Darcy. Darcy drinks - a lot. One night at the club (bump, bump), Colonel Fitz and Darcy run into a silver fox named Hadley who meets up with Darcy later to repo Pemberley on the basis of some old vowels (IOUs) from one George Darcy (Darcy Sr.). Darcy is fed up with everyone and everything at this point and it would be SO UNCOOL for a gentleman of his stature not to honor his father's debts, so he does the only thing he thinks he can - he makes arrangements with his solicitors to transfer Pemberley (and a big ol' bag o' money) to Hadley. In a move that should shock no one, his extended family _is not cool with that_ because they depend on him for _basically everything._ They serve him up a fat slice of the cut direct and Georgiana goes to live with them to avoid the coming scandal.

Meanwhile, Lizzy is hanging out at Pemberley after being invited to stay by the current occupant, Lady Graham. She is supposed to go to London with her aunt and uncle, but her mother calls her home to shake her stuff at a wealthy gentleman (who must be in want of a wife). Darcy, who **definitely does not expect to see her there** (Bingley is a terrible gossip, but sadly not up on current events), runs into Lizzy while arguing with a horse and covered in mud. Sparks fly, because duh, but oy vey do we have some problems!

Lydia tries to run off with Wickham but she's terrible at _everything_ and gets caught. Jane is engaged to Mr. Bingley, who (arguably) smiles too much. All of Meryton thinks Lizzy is secretly married to Wickham (remember that game telephone?), and Darcy is just chilling with his vegetables trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. The good news is that Lizzy digs his vegetable patch (not literally), and they cuddle a kitten together (though sadly not each other).

Still, things are looking up.

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

 _"So shall the world go on,_  
 _To good malignant, to bad men benign,_  
 _Under her own weight groaning."_  
 _\- John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book XII -_

 **17 August 1812  
 _Longbourn_**

"Lydia Bennet! If you do not return to the house this instant I will not be held accountable for my actions. No magistrate in the kingdom would find me at fault if I tanned your hide in front of all of Meryton."

Elizabeth Bennet's brisk steps carried her swiftly from the nearby garden to the place where her most troublesome sister crept near the gate. Lydia, having been caught red-footed in a very serious open act of rebellion, slowed her steps but did not stop them.

"La, Lizzy!" the younger girl exclaimed, pointing to the road before her with a dramatic sweep of her arms. "I was just going to call on Maria Lucas. There's no need to call the magistrate on my account, it is not as if _she_ is any danger to me."

Elizabeth crossed her arms as she stepped into the lane and blocked her sister's path. It was not the first time she had caught Lydia attempting to sneak into Meryton since her father had returned the girl from Brighton over a sennight ago—and it was unlikely to be the last.

"Not Maria, perhaps," Elizabeth argued, "but her mother certainly is. Lady Lucas is an even bigger gossip than Mama and Aunt Philips combined. If you have a mind to walk into Lucas Lodge you might as well save yourself the trouble and go straight to the lion's den."

"I still don't see why my engagement must be kept a secret at all, Lizzy!" Lydia wailed, "Papa has been so very unfair about everything! It's all well and good for _Jane_ to marry _Mr. Bingley_ , but he's chased poor Wickham off, you know! He and Mr. Forster together! Though no one has done as much to harm us as that _vile_ Mr. Darcy of yours. We should have been married weeks ago if it weren't for that old, stuffy curmudgeon's _hateful_ slander against my dear George! _I_ should have been the first to marry of all my sisters, and you all know it! It isn't _fair_ , Lizzy! I know that he loves me, but you all act as though you don't believe it!"

Lydia narrowed her eyes and crossed her own arms to deliver the very _coup de grâce_ Elizabeth had come to expect from the many arguments her sister had forged since her forced return to Longbourn.

"And _I_ who knows what it means to love more than any of my sisters!"

Elizabeth—who felt near enough to losing her breakfast at the very mention of Lydia's single most damning act of impropriety—had long since decided not to press the matter of Mr. Wickham and Lydia's vulgar notions of 'love' any further. Her father, in evidence of his newfound role as taskmaster, had allowed Lydia the one small mercy of believing herself engaged to Mr. Wickham—at least while the search for the gentleman continued. It was not yet known if the couple's mutual expressions of 'love' had resulted in anything more ruinous than Lydia's increasingly obscene attempts at self-incrimination. Until such a time as it was—the farce at Longbourn continued. And, in the case that a new babe _was_ to join the family… Well, a single word from Lydia's forked tongue heard in the village _before_ Mr. Wickham had been found, bribed, and duly married would certainly mean ruin for them all.

"Hold your tongue!" Elizabeth seethed. "If you mean to be an adult, then you must learn to act like one. And the first lesson you must learn is that life is rarely fair, despite what you may have come to expect from the novels I know both you and Kitty hide in your room. Not everyone ends up with the handsome prince, Lydia. Sometimes the gentleman is just a toad."

However, Lydia's pout—much like her senseless chatter—would not be repressed.

"I can't stay locked up here forever, Lizzy. If I have to listen to one more of Mary's dull sermons, I swear I will go mad."

On this point, Elizabeth could agree. Their middle sister Mary had always been a bit high in the instep for their tastes, but her piety had reached lofty new heights since Lydia's ill-advised escapade by the seaside. Still, the girl had only herself to blame and her other sisters considered themselves to have been punished enough by her wailing, Mary's scriptures, and Kitty's _incessant_ coughing.

They had been cooped up too long, but cooped up they would stay.

"Then go inside and find a bonnet to make over or a purse to net, Lydia," Elizabeth said with as much composure as she could muster. "You know you are meant to remain at Longbourn until Papa says otherwise."

Unfortunately, Elizabeth's suggestions left her silliest sister close to tears—as they usually did.

"But if it is left to Papa I shall never leave home again, Lizzy! You know how he despises me."

Before Elizabeth could fabricate an effective reply, Jane's soft voice interrupted from behind them.

"Papa does not despise you, Lydia, as you well know," she soothed. "Come back to the house and we shall see if Kitty and Mary are ready for tea. I believe there are apple tarts today."

Elizabeth peered over her shoulder and mouthed a silent "thank you," to the kindest, dearest, most patient of all sisters in the world.

 _Ah, sly Jane reappears,_ she thought to herself. _Well done, indeed!_

"Very well, Jane," Lydia huffed as she balled her fists and turned in the direction of the house. "Though you must know it gives me little pleasure!"

The two eldest Bennets followed in her wake at a slower pace, eager to be free of her company and even more so to see her inside the relative safety of the house.

"Nothing does it would seem, except perhaps apple tarts," Elizabeth muttered under her breath so that only Jane could hear. "Though to be fair, she has a much stronger admiration for Hill's sweets than I suppose _Mr. Wickham_ ever had for _her_ —and her passion for them is likely to hold for a longer duration. I suppose we should admire her both good taste and constancy now, as such qualities are so rarely found amongst gentlemen."

"Lizzy! That is too horrible!" Jane admonished, though her quiet laughter gave away her true sentiments on the subject. "I know you cannot believe that."

"Oh, but I can, Jane," Elizabeth protested. "We were all deceived by Mr. Wickham, none greater than I… Except, Lydia, that is."

Jane frowned.

"I wish you would not speak his name, Lizzy," she sighed. "You know what Papa will do if he hears you."

And she did.

Upon his return from Brighton, their father had made it quite clear that Mr. Wickham's name was not to be spoken by anyone, to anyone, for any reason—on pain of permanent restriction. Kitty had gasped, Mary had nodded her unconditional approval, Mrs. Bennet had been lost to a fit of nerves, and Jane and Elizabeth had only tightened their grasp on one another's fingers.

It had only been the beginning of what was to be an awful evening filled with Lydia's revelations, their father's shame, and their mutual anguish.

"I shall remain at home regardless, Jane," Elizabeth replied, sweeping away the unpleasant memories. "It hardly matters if I am under Papa's orders to do so or not."

"Has Mr. Barry withdrawn his attentions then, since Lydia's return?" Jane suggested with far too much composure to denote a truly casual inquiry.

Elizabeth laughed aloud at Jane's attempt and rolled her eyes to the heavens.

"John Barry? Hardly!" she sighed, "I wish he would not call as often as he does, for I cannot deny his company in Mama's own sitting room. Can you imagine what she would say? _Oh, la,_ Jane!" she mocked, "I should not like to attempt it."

"Lizzy!" her sister chucked softly, nodding to the open window. "Have a care! Mama will hear you. I have no wish to spend my last hours at Longbourn scrubbing pots beside you in the kitchen."

"Yes, yes," Elizabeth agreed. "And I should hate to send her for her salts so early in the day. But, as the 'fashionably rich' and 'uncommonly handsome' Mr. John Barry of Mama's fondest dreams pays me hardly any more attention than the rest of my sisters, I suppose I shall be safe from him as well as Mama. Even so, I prefer to remain at home for the present."

Jane's frown returned.

"I believe the talk about… well, yourself and... _that gentleman_ , horrible and unkind gossip as it was, has already started to die down, Lizzy," she offered quietly. "You need not be afraid of our neighbors, or of Mr. Barry, for that matter. He seems a nice man, and of course Charles likes him very well."

Elizabeth's thoughts returned to John Barry. He was a nice enough man, it was true. And she had enjoyed dancing with him on the two occasions which had presented themselves since her return to Longbourn. The two had always enjoyed a good friendship, despite his being nearly five years her senior and much more interested in shooting birds than reading books. Though she had not seen him in near four years before his return to Meryton, the death of his uncle—the last of his relations—seemed to have sobered his generally cheerful disposition somewhat, at least for the time being.

On his first call to Longbourn he had spoken at length of his many new responsibilities and his strong desire to make his own way in the world. Elizabeth had found the topic of conversation rather serious for the affable young man she remembered from her youth, but soon decided that it was perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to discuss his concerns amongst old friends. Jane, however, had developed a very different opinion from his disclosures—clearly, she had said, John Barry must be in want of a wife.

At the time, Elizabeth had teased Jane for sounding a good deal too much like their mother. But with each call John made to Longbourn—Elizabeth was becoming less and less certain.

Not that she would ever reveal such a thing to her sister.

"You will excuse me for saying so, Jane," Elizabeth countered, as much for Jane's benefit as her own, "you know I think highly of your Mr. Bingley, but I can hardly remember a time he did _not_ like someone very well! It seems neither of you can be troubled to think ill of anyone. You are both entirely too agreeable."

Jane straightened herself from where she had bent to pick up her work basket before she replied.

"I hardly think very well of Mr. Wickham," she said with an expression Elizabeth might have called hostile, had it not crossed Jane's fair features. All in all, her eldest sister retained as temperate an appearance as ever—even in her vexation.

"Yes, Jane. That is true," Elizabeth sighed. "You have done well there, I suppose. It would be quite hard to think well of him after the way he has treated our poor, silly sister."

Jane nodded her agreement. "Yes, Lizzy—but Mr. Barry is hardly cut from the same cloth as that… that scoundrel!"

Elizabeth could not deny herself the small smile which appeared at this first sign of Jane's uncharacteristic censure.

"Careful, Jane! Or I should think you lost to a fit of temper! And of course you are right, Mr. Barry seems a decent sort of man. But I have no special interest in him, and I hardly think he has any in me," _she hoped_. "When your Mr. Bingley has finished signing his many stacks of parchment, I imagine that John Barry will be gone from Hertfordshire until the next batch of stacks arrive. I doubt I will regret the loss of his company any more or less than anyone else in the neighborhood."

With a twitch of her shoulders, she shrugged off her own concerns as to John Barry's motivations for remaining in town. After all, the gentleman had planned to leave a full sennight earlier—that is, until he suggested Uncle Phillips look over the leasing documents a second time, and then a third—all of which was hardly surprising for one new to estate ownership and letting, of course.

Unfortunately, Jane's opinion was not so easily swayed.

"I know for a fact that you are wrong, Lizzy," she said with a gentle nudge. "I am quite certain that there are some who would like to see him leave the neighborhood much less than you—Mama, for one."

Jane paused and pursed her lips in a display of her eager amusement. Elizabeth very nearly held her breath in anticipation of her sister's rare foray into teasing.

She did not disappoint.

"And I daresay _Mr. Darcy_ would supply his own horse within minutes if the gentleman should decide to leave the neighborhood."

"Jane!" Elizabeth gasped as her sister's arrow found its mark.

"Come, Lizzy!" Jane laughed. "Did you expect I had not noticed that the length and duration of your walks have increased seemingly overnight since the first day you met Mr. Darcy on the road?"

Elizabeth felt her face flush with colour at her sister's suggestion. It was not the first time she had regretted mentioning her meeting with Mr. Darcy on the road—for it now seemed a secret shared with _Jane_ had become a secret shared with _Charles Bingley_ as well—but she certainly regretted engaging on the subject of single gentleman of the neighbourhood today given her sister's uncharacteristically impudent mood.

"We both enjoy walking, Jane. That is all."

It seemed Jane's _rather unladylike_ fit of the giggles could not be stopped. Elizabeth bristled and raised her chin, willing her skin to return to a normal shade. She would not have her _friendship_ with Mr. Darcy remarked upon in such a way—not even by her own dearest sister, if it came to it. It was bad enough that she had to keep such an innocuous connection from her father—who could hardly be trusted to view a walk with any gentleman objectively at present—she had no desire to argue the same point with Jane.

"Yes, and blackberries, it would seem," her sister continued mercilessly. "For I have also noticed a sharp increase in the number of berry tarts, berry muffins, berry pies, and berry jams that Hill has had on offer lately. My, Lizzy! What a happy coincidence, would you not say?"

Elizabeth remained silent.

She would not be intimidated into making some sort of _completely false_ acknowledgement that she enjoyed anything other than the _entirely random_ and only _somewhat amiable_ companionship of that gentleman _very occasionally_ on her morning walks. She could hardly help that his cottage was on the lane! And who was she to argue if the gentleman sometimes returned her baskets to Longbourn bearing _a marginal amount_ of the berries which grew _so freely_ on his property? It was only _neighbourly_ she return the favour from time to time. After all, Longbourn had _more than enough_ bread, honey, and thyme. Indeed, they had more than even Hill knew what to do with! It was not _her_ fault his own thyme seedlings had stubbornly refused to sprout.

And yes, she did happen to know for a fact that the gentleman preferred to take honey with his tea, _as any good neighbour was like to_. Though an uncommon preference to be sure, she had taken note of it when Mr. Darcy had spoken to her of his time spent touring the Scottish agricultural estates as a boy. Apparently, many Scottish beekeepers used skeps to guard against the changeable weather in bee boles on their heather moors, which Mr. Darcy had affectionately described as the most rugged, wild, and beautiful landscapes he had ever seen with his own eyes. When he had shared his impressions of the wide sweeping valleys, high rocky peaks, and gently rolling hills covered in blooming hues of blues and purples, Elizabeth had silently ceded him the point. Truthfully, she thought even Robert Burns himself would be hard pressed to do Mr. Darcy's composition justice. And when he had continued to wax poetic on the stoutness and quality of the native Scottish black bee and the superior methods applied to collect its wares, Elizabeth could not help but afford him the opportunity to reconsider such a decidedly staid opinion. Although she had never visited the idyllic heather moors of Scotland—and likely never would—she was quite certain that the sweetness of Longbourn's honey was beyond compare. And so, she had made it a point to share her _superior_ knowledge of Hertfordshire's bee population with the gentleman as soon as could be arranged.

She wished she had been able to see the look upon his face when he uncovered the selection of combs she had left at his door, but though her woven basket had now traversed the distance between Longbourn and the cottage several times, Mr. Darcy had been out on the afternoon she had called to deliver it. Or rather, when she had happened to pass by the cottage on her way to Oakham Mount... carrying a basket of honey.

"Have you stumbled upon a secret bramble then?" Jane droned on, interrupting her sister's rambling thoughts. "Because as far as I can remember, the nearest crop of sweet berries in the county can be found on Mr. Young's property. Is that right, Lizzy?"

Jane paused for a moment to tap her lips with her fingertip in a show of mock contemplation.

"Mr. Young's cottage, hm… Oh my! Is that not exactly where Mr.—"

"Jane!" Elizabeth hissed. "Enough!"

Jane regarded her sister with a knowing smile which Elizabeth found most irritating.

"I am only teasing, Lizzy," she grinned. "If you must continue to insist that the gentleman is not courting you, when it is plain that he is, I will agree with you on the premise of sisterly charity. I have heard much on the subject from Mary lately and I find the topic suits me very well."

Elizabeth plainly ignored her sister's comment regarding Mr. Darcy's treatment of her, which she considered far from being evidence of any courtship—not that she would ever agree to such a thing, obviously. She had spurned the man, of course, and the very day after their first meeting he had attempted to stop her from making any mention of the letter he had written at Rosings Park. He had never raised the issue himself, and Elizabeth was certainly not going to insult the man any further by making mention of it. All of this, and more, clearly indicated his loss of interest in her as a prospect. Not that she could blame him for it.

 _And not that there was any reason for blame!_

Since that conversation, they had forged a very tenuous friendship—and barely one she would call amiable at that. Their only interactions thus far had centered around a handful of walks to Oakham Mount—six, in fact, if one could even call a half-dozen a handful—her continued admiration for his experimental garden—for she had discovered a natural love for agriculture—and a smattering of conversations revolving around some favoured passages in books they had both read. Elizabeth chose to keep the fact that she had read many of those books in his own library to herself. It was a tentative peace that existed between them, but a peace nonetheless. She had done her duty to Jane and made something of a friend of Mr. Darcy.

 _But it was hardly what anyone would consider a romance!_

"Lizzy!" a screech she recognized as belonging to Mrs. Bennet called from the house. It was a welcome interruption from her circular thoughts and she found she greatly appreciated any opportunity to draw Jane's attention from Mr. Darcy.

"Come inside, girl! You have had a letter from your friend Mrs. Graham!"

Lady Graham—styled "Mrs. Graham" in her letters to avoid any undue spark of interest from Elizabeth's mother. This would be the second letter Lady Graham had sent to Longbourn since the Gardiner party had departed Derbyshire. The first, penned the very day Elizabeth had returned home, contained a new direction for the Grahams in Town. The missive soon explained that the lady's brother had sent for her soon after their impromptu visit to Pemberley, and that she and her children were to join him there for the whole of the autumn, at least. She had written that she hoped to be able to call upon the Gardiners at Gracechurch Street as soon as she was able, but that she had very little idea of how her brother had planned their time as of yet. Would Elizabeth be so kind as to send their direction? Elizabeth had struggled with her decision to write back at first, but in the end it was done—and done for the best. She very much enjoyed Marian's company and the thought of her dear, melancholy friend _not_ receiving a missive in return tore at her gentle heart.

"She has kept up the correspondence then?" Jane asked from beside her as they made their way into the house. "It is certainly kind of her to show you such condescension."

"Yes," Elizabeth nodded. "It is."

In truth, the extreme nature of Marian's condescension puzzled her. How was it that a lady born to so many advantages—and who had married into so many others besides—could remain so terribly lonely? How was it that such a charming, witty, kind—not to mention wealthy beyond measure—woman was so entirely devoid of companionship that she wished to keep up a correspondence with a poor gentleman's daughter with little but her wits to recommend her, especially after so brief an acquaintance? From the very first moments of their meeting in the gallery hall of Pemberley, Lady Graham had seemed to form a peculiar sort of attachment to Elizabeth which she could not credit but enjoyed nonetheless. Of course, the lady _had_ mentioned that her title and wealth had often served to create something of a distance between herself and other ladies, and that she had been uncommonly lonely... but Elizabeth felt that there must be another reason behind her lack of society—and fondness for Elizabeth—which she had not shared as of yet. Perhaps it had something to do with her broken heart? Marian had certainly lost more than most, and Elizabeth would not be the one to take anything else from her.

Although, she admitted to herself, she did feel rather guilty about writing to her friend against Mr. Darcy's wishes. Still, Elizabeth knew there was nothing inherently wicked about Lady Marian Graham, unless one counted her garish taste in poetry—which really _was_ quite shocking. Besides, after the first day she had toured the garden with him, Mr. Darcy had kept his word not to mention any more of his 'misfortunes' to her, and she had decided to adopt the same tack. If the issue was not raised between them, she preferred to imagine it did not exist. She would not dissemble, of course, but neither would she invite trouble to company by flaunting her disregard for his concerns. Though they were friends in some meager sense of the word, neither had been inclined to broach any subject that could be considered close to the chest.

She had some idea of what had come to pass before his return to Hertfordshire, of course, both from their first and only conversation on the topic and what she had heard from the garrulous gossip queen of Meryton—Lady Lucas.

According to Meryton's mouthiest matron, the bulk of Mr. Darcy's property and funds had been afforded to a mysterious gentleman who had appeared on English shores by way of a merchant ship from the Orient. The gentleman, whom only Elizabeth knew to be named Hadley, was said to have amber skin and eyes as dark as sapphires. It was apparently quite well-known that he travelled with a surplus of beautiful, exotic women, whom he wrapped in rubies, fine silks, and furs and afforded a purse of nearly fifty pounds per month for their expenses.

How he had managed to slip Pemberley and a fortune of—Lady Lucas assumed—near 300,000 pounds, was not as well-known. Some reports had Mr. Darcy owing a debt of honour to the gentleman of over 500,000 pounds, but Elizabeth could not credit such an outlandish rumour any better than she could bring to mind such an unfathomable sum. Other versions of events, however, struck her as even less likely. It had been whispered in some drawing rooms, including their own, that Mr. Darcy had invested heavily in the slave trade, for instance. In these objectively preposterous reports, he lost his hat when several ship captains mutinied against him and sold the poor devils for their own profit. In another, Mr. Darcy's own sister had been taken in by the gentleman to—well, it didn't bear repeating—but the story was that Mr. Darcy had to pay handsomely to recover his sister's honour. Elizabeth, though she had never met Miss Darcy, vigorously defended the lady against such tawdry charges nonetheless to anyone who would listen—and to some who would not. A silly story though it was, Elizabeth knew that a lady's reputation was often ruined by far less inventive tales.

And so, despite his warning, which she believed to be as well-meant as it must be mistaken, Elizabeth had continued her correspondence with Lady Marian Graham.

She had not dared to ask the lady anything about her knowledge of Mr. Darcy or his reduced circumstances directly, but she could not shake the niggling feeling that she must be missing _something_ between them. After all, though Mr. Darcy had claimed no knowledge of the lady, Lady Graham had mentioned an acquaintance with his mother at Pemberley. And, though Elizabeth—somewhat to her surprise and thus to her great consternation—had been gratified by the information that her friend was _not_ the gentleman's mistress, she found it hard to believe that a lady, any lady, would take up residence in a man's home without _some_ indication of where he was or when he was meant to be returning—or _if_ he was meant to be returning.

Though she had not pressed the gentleman himself on the details of his removal from town, the shocking loss—if indeed it was lost—of Pemberley, his recent preoccupation with Mr. Bingley's fenceposts, or his perplexing choice to remain at Mr. Young's cottage rather than join his friends at Netherfield, it did not follow that she had not given these developments _some_ consideration.

Still, she had kept her own council thus far, which she considered to be quite the achievement in itself. After all, she had a miserable record for holding her tongue in the man's presence. However, with Lydia's return to Longbourn, her own assumed secret dalliance and or marriage to Mr. Wickham, and Jane's wedding fast approaching—she had little time to spare for much of anything else to weigh on her mind, let alone the many mysteries of Mr. Darcy.

Or so she told herself.

Lost in her muddled thoughts of Mr. Darcy's many mysteries once more—as, despite all her protestations to the contrary, she so often was—Elizabeth made her way into the house.

And later that evening, when she had finished reading Lady Marian's letter for a second time—a letter which, it should be noted, was filled _not_ with villainous narratives of injustices and intrigue, but with colourfully worded anecdotes describing the latest adventures of her three daughters and the girls' observations on their recent relocation to Town—Elizabeth made every attempt to respond in kind before eventually being hampered by her own mother's demands.

She had just drawn out a new page when Mrs. Bennet appeared before her, draped in enough ribbon to deck the halls of the Church of Saint Peter. Kitty and Lydia clung to her sides, endeavoring to untangle what knotted ribbons they could—a task frequently interrupted by their fits of giggles. Mary, who had apparently mussed the ribbons by sitting on them in the first place, was no longer considered qualified to handle such an exigent task and she had taken straight to the pianoforte after her banishment from the room. If the volume or accuracy of her playing was any indication of intent, Elizabeth believed Mary must have meant to punish them all.

"Lizzy!" her mother cried from beneath her mound of finery, "this is no time for you to have your head stuck in a book. I beg you would go upstairs and help your sister."

Elizabeth, who had been attempting to give the very same sister a much needed _moment to herself_ in a house full of harridans, bit back the snide comment she intended for her mother and dutifully made her way upstairs.

Mary continued her assault on Beethoven.

Kitty and Lydia argued.

Mrs. Bennet cried out for Hill.

The smell of Mr. Bennet's cigar filled the hall.

When Elizabeth reached the entryway to their room, she found Jane reclined on the bed they had shared since childhood—her eyes closed and her breathing even. Assuming her sister to be asleep, she made to close the door when a quiet voice stalled her progress.

"I am not asleep, Lizzy," Jane asserted, reading her thoughts in that way her sister so often did. Rather than rising from the bed, she opened her eyes, stretched her arms above her head, and sighed. "I am only… I am trying to build a memory for myself. A memory of being here."

Elizabeth shared a soft smile with her sister as she made her way back into the room and closed the door behind her.

"Come and lay with me, Lizzy," Jane said, patting the bed beside her.

"So that your memory might include me?" Elizabeth teased.

"Yes," she answered solemnly. "Most of them do, after all."

Elizabeth climbed into the bed beside her sister and pulled the counterpane over them, despite the fact that it was still light outside and they remained dressed for dinner.

After several moments of quiet reflection had passed, Elizabeth broke the silence.

"Do you know, Jane... I believe Bingley has changed you."

She felt Jane stir beside her and assumed she meant to protest, but Jane remained quiet as she took her sister's offered hand in her own and snuggled closer.

"I mean that he has changed you for the better, of course," Elizabeth urged. "You are still as sweet, and kind, and good-natured as always, but you are changed Jane. You speak your mind more often than not, you care less for what others think of you, and you certainly have handled Mama with all the grace of an angel." She paused, lowering her voice to the teasing whisper she had used to entertain Jane for as long as either could remember. "And, _most importantly_ , you have finally learned to think ill of someone! Yes, Jane. You are quite grown up now. I daresay you shall make Mr. Bingley a fine wife."

Jane rolled to her side as she giggled alongside her sister under their shared blanket. Elizabeth mirrored her motion so that they were facing each other—a position they had often adopted to share confidences and discuss the trials and tribulations of being the two eldest of five Bennet daughters. Their foreheads nearly touching, Elizabeth sought to capture a memory of her own.

"I think you are right, Lizzy," Jane agreed thoughtfully, her clear blue eyes reflecting her sister's darker gaze. "I feel as though I know myself better now than I did before. I cannot explain it. I have always been myself, but somehow, being with Charles—I feel more myself than ever. I believe we will do well together."

Elizabeth smiled, raising her free hand to stroke her sister's golden hair.

"Of course you shall do well together, Jane! You have found an excellent man to love you and you are far too excellent not to be loved just as well in return."

The sounds of Mrs. Bennet's latest chastisements—once again directed at Mary—filled the air around them.

"And you will make the most beautiful bride in the county if our mother would only allow you a moment's rest today," Elizabeth grumbled.

Jane only shook her head and burrowed further into her pillow.

"Let Mama be as ridiculous as she wishes, Lizzy. She is very happy, and she has waited for this day far longer than I. And besides, I can hardly think of rest today! Tomorrow… Oh, tomorrow! I can hardly think what to say about it, Lizzy!"

Elizabeth heard the anxiety in her sister's voice and patted her hand again in an attempt to soothe her. Jane had done the same for her many times—when Elizabeth had been frustrated by her younger sisters, misunderstood by her mother, or even abandoned by her father in favor of his books.

Suddenly, it all felt real for the first time.

Tomorrow Jane would leave her. Tomorrow she would have no one with which to share moments such as these. Tomorrow she would return to this bed alone and there would be no Jane to comfort her. Tomorrow _she_ would be the eldest Miss Bennet, and it would fall on her alone to manage their raucous mother, silly sisters, and impartial, increasingly withdrawn, father. Tomorrow Jane would become Mrs. Bingley.

"There is nothing you need to say, sister," Elizabeth whispered softly. "Tomorrow your new life begins. I am very proud of you."

Jane raised their hands to rest on the pillow between their heads and answered with a firm pat against Elizabeth's palm.

"I wish you would not look so sad, Lizzy. Yours will begin soon enough. I am sure of it."

As Elizabeth's eyelids grew too heavy to hold their own weight, she shook her head as well as she was able and responded on a soft sigh.

"Mr. Darcy and I are just friends, Jane."

"Yes, of course, Lizzy," Jane agreed sleepily. "I am sure you are right."

And so it came to be that Jane Bennet's last thoughts on the evening before her wedding were not of her betrothed, her fretful nerves, or the brilliant future which awaited her on the morrow.

 _How interesting_ , she mused.

 _I do not believe I said anything about Mr. Darcy._

* * *

And next time on **Real Housewives of Hertfordshire** : The turnout for Jane and Bingley's Wedstravaganza 1812 shatters all of Meryton's previous parish records. Caroline Bingley wears a turban that is _painfully_ last season. Mr. Collins reappears to no one's satisfaction. Local farmhand/bad boy/entrepreneur/barista Darcy causes quite the stir in his brocade waistcoat. Tea is served!

See you in the comments!


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

 _"_ _Be strong, live happy and love."_  
 _–_ _John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book VII –_

Jane was indeed the most beautiful bride Hertfordshire had ever seen. Her mother was unsatisfied with this description, a fact that surprised no one who knew her. No indeed, for Mrs. Bennet was quite certain that anyone who looked on Jane in all her wedding finery had to admit that there was no match for her beauty in all the known world.

They simply _had to_ , of course, for there was no alternative given.

However, as Miss Bennet was the most beautiful bride any of the assembled parties had ever laid eyes on, none were of a mind to argue, and despite their full knowledge of Mrs. Bennet's proclivity for exaggeration, the whole of Meryton quietly agreed that on this day she told the absolute truth. However, emboldened by her eldest daughter's most fortuitous marriage as she was—and still somewhat anxious that some _horrible calamity_ might befall either Jane or Mr. Bingley or the parson or the whole of Meryton and thus the happy event _might not take place_ , which would be a sad state of affairs for not only her poor, dear, dutiful Jane, but would ultimately _land her entire family in the hedgerows_ —Mrs. Bennet pressed the point repeatedly with all her neighbours before, during, and even after the church service had ended.

Luckily, none of Mrs. Bennet's nervous concerns would come to fruition, though her patience was to be sorely tested.

Instead, the uncommonly beautiful and blessedly patient Miss Jane Bennet arrived from Longbourn in the care of her family at the appointed hour only to learn that Charles Bingley had been pacing the open field behind the church for some time. As Mr. Darcy revealed to Jane's father—in a rather loud voice well within that lady's hearing—her betrothed had worried that he might be late, and so he had arrived several hours early. Unfortunately, as the gentleman further explained in a significantly more discreet tone, Mr. Bingley's newfound penchant for punctuality had no bearing on that of the good parson, who had yet to be seen by anyone at all.

Mr. Bennet, who was well used to the eccentricities of country life—and, more specifically—the eccentricities of the oft-in-his-cups clergyman, Mr. Widows, was the only one amused by such a ludicrous turn of events. While Elizabeth, who had overheard the conversation well enough to know that there was cause for concern, exchanged a wary look with her sister, Mrs. Bennet, who had never been inclined to pay any mind to the gossip of gentlemen—for everyone knew they hardly discussed anything of consequence—remained blissfully unaware of the missing parson until long after her husband had set off in the direction of the small rectory to set matters to rights.

Mr. Bennet took his time with his task, as he so often did.

He was in no hurry to lose a daughter today, though he supposed he should be glad of the opportunity to finally gain a long-awaited son. Still, if the parson had decided that he was to be late to his own services, or if Mr. Bingley was to become lost in the fields, for that matter, Mr. Bennet would not be the one dragging either gentleman to the door. No, things would get on well enough, he was sure of it.

And if they did not, well, they would have Mrs. Bennet to answer to.

He chucked to himself at the thought as the somewhat ramshackle rectory came into view down the back lane. The small stone cottage was just one of several small buildings on the property, each being sufficiently more peculiar than the last. The church itself was by no means usual, which was hardly _unusual_ for Hertfordshire, which boasted any number of ecclesiastical oddities of varying sizes, shapes, and epochs—but the Meryton parish was in a class all its own. Being an odd sort of amalgamation of Norman, Tudor, Jacobean, and the more modern architectural styles as it was, Mr. Bennet had always considered the poor church to be something of an unfortunate jumble of all the worst elements of those venerable designs. The original Norman structure, a slightly rounded stone chamber, had been incorporated into the later designs to serve as a broad chancel—which it did well-enough, or would have done, had it been fully centered—but as it was utility that generally drove improvements to the parish, all sense of form had been repeatedly sacrificed in the nobler pursuits of economy and function.

The result was a sight to behold. A somewhat uneven and entirely impractical tall spire rose from a stone tower at the north and south semitransepts, while two large porches jutted out from either side, one of Roman stone and the other only recently rebuilt with local timber. A variety of stones, bricks, wood, and mixed glass heralded parishioners into a grand chamber as erratic as its exterior, displaying all manner of woodwork, tiles, stained glass, monuments, and paintings. If they had ever been meant to tell a story of sin or salvation, their meaning had been lost to time or renovations long ago. Mr. Bennet knew from experience. He had spent more than a modest amount of time in the parish over his five-and-forty years, and hardly any of it attending to the parson. As a result, he was well aware that if one followed the tiles facing the east entrance from left to right, the story of the old testament ended with a shapely woman holding a what appeared to be a winged frog over a sea of _Rubus sanctus_. Blackberries were admittedly an odd choice for a burning bush, but Mr. Bennet, who remained as delighted by the follies and foibles of his surroundings as ever, was glad of any opportunity for entertainment within the small church of his ancestors. Blackberries and frogs would do.

However, when Mr. Bennet reached the wrought iron gate beyond the stone wall of the church some minutes later, he was sure that no one had encountered such a nonsensical sight as he now beheld there.

Mr. Widows was indeed present and dressed for his services, but Mr. Bennet was surprised to find not one, but two—or rather, three—necessary persons for the work of the day before them. Apparently, Mr. Bingley had found his way to the rectory some time earlier and remained there in order to undergo several changes to the style of his cravat, cufflinks, waistcoat, and even his buttons. His valet, Mr. Mooreland, was now chasing after his employer with the gentleman's coat still in hand, but Mr. Bingley would not or could not heed his calls to slow his frantic pace around the garden. In fact, Mr. Mooreland had only just made up his mind to resign from his profession entirely when Mr. Bingley decided that he simply must walk the park again and inquired as to the location of his missing coat. The young groom implored Mr. Widows to lead him back in the direction of the church, but Mr. Widows paced the path before the rectory in a state of nervous agitation, searching his pockets as if he too had forgotten the way to his own parish and hoped to find a map.

When Mr. Bennet met the odd collection of gentleman at the gate, the exhausted valet and the elderly parson were evidently both quite relieved to be given a brief, much needed reprieve from their duties.

Mr. Bingley, his eyes wide and palms sweaty, barely managed to stammer out something like a greeting before he inquired as to his soon-to-be father's opinion on the fourth knot of his second cravat. And would Jane consider a dark blue waistcoat too flashy?

Mr. Mooreland winced.

Mr. Widows stared off into the distance, likely counting the days until he was meant for the seaside.

Mr. Bennet threw back his head and laughed.

He quite was thoroughly entertained.

However, back in the churchyard, the rest of his party was decidedly less so.

At the departure of her husband and the sight of Mr. Darcy, who was to stand up with his friend, Mrs. Bennet was lost to yet another fit of nerves. So certain was she that he meant to ruin one or all of her many remaining daughters that she flatly refused to greet him. After all, she had heard any number of frightful rumours regarding that very gentleman in the village! Of course, the fact that she herself had originated many of them did not immediately cross her mind—nor was it likely to change her low opinion of the man if it had. Clutching her two youngest to her chest, Mrs. Bennet scurried inside the church before he should seize the opportunity. She had seen the way Mr. Darcy so often leered at her and was soon of the mind that a pretty gentlewoman, no matter her age, could never be too careful.

Mary and Elizabeth she left to themselves.

Surely Mary was too plain to attract the attentions of such an accomplished rake—but let him try if he would do! Mary was as much in need of a husband as any of them and she certainly had far less to recommend her than most. And as for Lizzy— _La!_ It might do her well to learn a little something about what happened to young women who remained unmarried against their mother's very good advice. After all, if it had not been for her second eldest and least reasonable child's encouragement of Mr. Wickham's attentions, her own poor Lydia might still be in Brighton where she belonged.

"Come girls," she called out to no one in particular. "We must see to your sister's care, for she is to marry the kindest, most agreeable, and exceedingly generous gentleman of our acquaintance on this day. _He_ would certainly never traipse about the country insulting his neighbours and taking every advantage of their charity. That is what I call good breeding!"

If anyone heard her, they gave no notice.

Regardless, Kitty and Lydia allowed themselves to be pulled into the church without argument as they chatted amongst themselves.

Mary, who was quite oblivious to her family's obvious desertion, made her way into the church in pursuit of a seat nearest Mr. Miles Barber, the newest addition to their flock and the man who would take it up when the current shepherd resigned the position at the end of the summer. Mr. Barber was young, uncommonly well read, and held many opinions on the writings of Fordyce that Mary found both troubling to her fastidiously arranged sense of piety and extremely exhilarating to her traitorous natural person.

It should also be noted that his breeches fit him very well—some might say rather too well for a parson.

As Jane had entered the side door of the church, which led to a small and irregularly shaped antechamber—whose original purpose had been lost along with its porticos—upon the family's arrival, Elizabeth soon found herself standing quite alone with Mr. Darcy outside the large, rather ridiculously ornate side door of the church. If either of them felt the awkwardness of being so absurdly arranged, which they both did, they were polite enough not to make any mention of it.

Mr. Darcy was, in fact, so polite that he made no mention of anything at all as he silently offered his arm to the only remaining Miss Bennet.

When Elizabeth placed a light hand gently atop his arm, any conversation that the gentleman might have been preparing to make was quickly driven from his consideration. Swallowing the empty pleasantries he had been about to offer, he kept his gaze fixed on his boots as he guided Elizabeth towards the small, timeworn structure at the end of the grassy lane. Although Darcy was no longer surprised by the tightening in his chest whenever he looked on Elizabeth, the feeling disconcerted him nonetheless. He had no wish to encourage it any further. Certainly not today. Certainly not _here_.

Meanwhile, to his right, Elizabeth was forced to acknowledge that Mr. Darcy looked as well in his coat on this occasion as he had looked out of it—though she had no more desire to dwell on the direction of their steps than the gentleman beside her. A strange heat began to well within her at the thought and she found she could no longer look at him. Even her fingertips burned where they rested on his arm. Turning her attention to anything but the gentleman beside her, she attempted to regain her composure as he steered her to the entry. Perhaps she should have eaten this morning as he mother had suggested. Truly, she was beginning to feel quite unwell.

So engaged in their private struggles as they were, they silently made their way inside the church together as one.

They were not long in parting upon their entry into the weathered vestibule of the old church, which left Darcy feeling both devoid of Elizabeth's presence and glad of her departure. He had not anticipated leading Miss Elizabeth Bennet into a church today— _or any day_ —and to say that doing so had unsettled him greatly would be no exaggeration. As she nodded rather than voiced her departure, he was certain that she must have been able to feel his quite palpable shame.

Now alone with his thoughts in the corridor, Darcy began to consider the future for almost the first time since his unceremonious departure from town. Unlike most, if not all, of those assembled under the rafters this morning, his thoughts were not of a cheerful bent—although they were of a similar direction. Namely, the very great pleasure a man could receive from the prolonged company of a woman he found incomparably fascinating.

However, despite all his efforts to the contrary—which he believed to be considerable—the previous weeks spent in the company of Elizabeth Bennet had left him in no doubt of his continuing affection and regard for her. He had sought her out on more than one occasion with the idea in mind that he might discover some great disparity of character that would finally serve to end his attachment to her entirely. Or, at the very least, that an increased familiarity with the lady might lead to a gradual waning of his admiration for her.

Unfortunately, if anything, he had found that the truth was… quite the opposite.

Of course, this discovery was equally as expected as it was unwelcome. He had employed much of the same tack on her visit to Rosings Park, and he now felt the full weight of his foolish hopes that he might find any feeling for her within himself that might differ from those he had so foolishly shared with her in April.

It was not as if he believed himself to be of an inconstant disposition or a mutable character, but rather that he imagined that his knowledge of her true opinion of him—that he was arrogant, selfish, vain, disagreeable, and t _he last man she could ever marry_ —might somehow serve to reconcile his own opinion of her. He had long since admitted to the legitimacy of many of her accusations against the more prideful aspects of his nature—privately, of course—and he had done what he could to attend to her more trenchant criticisms, but he could hardly hold an affection for a woman who so openly disdained him.

 _Could he?_

Certainly he did not believe that the Master of Pemberley could have done so.

But—he reminded himself, as he so often did—he was _not_ the Master of Pemberley.

He had not been that man for some time, perhaps not since that agonising afternoon on the ninth of April. Instead, he had become a creature content to wallow in a pool of his own torment and self-inflicted frustration. He had walked with her, talked with her, quarrelled with her, and begged her opinion. They had discussed politics and preserves, philosophy and polite society, poetry and poultry—but they had not touched upon any subject of more vital importance to either of them than the price of wheat or the mildness of the weather.

Elizabeth Bennet was both his penance and his perdition.

Although he was now certain that she had read his letter, she had not raised the subject again, and—despite his violent curiosity—he was glad of it. She was as much a balm to his restless spirits as she was a cause for them, and though he wished it were not so, he knew that he was beginning to form some dependence on the sense of unnatural optimism that her irregular company aroused in him. He did not know what brought her down the lane to the place where the road to Oakham Mount met his, and he refused to question it. Let it be pity, let it be pride, let it be vengeance or common civility—if his silence was the price of her company, he would willingly pay it.

He could not have stood to lose her again.

But that was before he had seen her in the churchyard.

Unfortunately, it was in that moment that Darcy fully comprehended the error he should have realised long ago— _though_ , he thought to himself, _perhaps he had_.

He was not playing with fire. He had already been burned. He was not tempting fate. He had run afoul of it. He was not diluting his regard for her. He was tempering it.

While it was true that he was no longer the Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley who had courted her so abominably the previous spring, it was an equally incontrovertible fact that Fitzwilliam Darcy of Hertfordshire was no more capable of earning her respect than his previous self had been. If anything, he was less acceptable, less tolerable, and less worthy of her regard than he had been when he had offered for her under all the auspices of the Darcy name, the Darcy fortune, and the Darcy honour—when there had been any left of it. He could walk with her and talk with her, but he would never enjoy her good opinion. It was foolish to think otherwise. And yes, he had allowed himself to think it. He was a fool.

 _And she knew it, too._

He had seen it in the guarded expression in her eyes when she cast them on anything but him, felt it in the light touch of her hand when he led her in, and, most notably, heard it in the space left behind by her uncharacteristic silence.

When he had seen her in the churchyard, dressed in what he now knew to be her favourite rose-coloured muslin, the one that brought out the green in her eyes, it had been all he could do to stop himself from rushing to her.

 _Had she seen it? Had she known?_

Darcy's brow furrowed as he realised that she must have. He did not need to hear the words again. Her silence spoke for her.

His stomach churned.

Eventually, he knew that he would have no choice but break his vow of silence on the subject of his feelings for her. He was no better at keeping them at bay now than he had been in Kent.

 _But it would not do. It could not do. He would not do it._

She had made no secret of the fact that she did not, could not, love him, and yet he had continuously invaded her company and sought her absolution. But he could not be absolved. He had nothing to offer her even if he were. He would only be abandoned, and rightfully so.

 _What must she think of him?_

It hardly mattered, he told himself. He would separate himself from her as soon as was possible, for now that he recognised the truth of his unwanted and indefensible dependence on her, he could not possibly forget it.

Their unspoken truce was to carry them only as far as the church doors. It could not carry them any further.

In spite of all his own objections to the matter, of which there were several, he could not stop himself from edging towards the half-open doorway of the small vestry between the woefully misaligned timber porch and the long transept where he had left her. If he were to deny himself the consolation of her company, he would begin on the morrow.

On the other side of the door, Elizabeth Bennet's own thoughts had begun to clear considerably since his departure. Her hands still trembled, but she flatly refused to pay any attention to them.

 _It is only my nerves_ , she chided herself. _I am becoming my mother._

She shook her head. It was not for her to be nervous today. Today was for Jane. And now that she thought of it, Jane looked rather nervous herself.

She had been glad of the opportunity to be reunited with her sister once more before her father returned with the parson and the services commenced, but she worried that the stress of the morning had played some havoc on Jane's gentle constitution. Elizabeth had obviously felt the results of her mother's rushed pace, her younger sisters' frequent arguments over lace and ribbon, to say nothing of the roaming groom, the missing parson, or... well, Mr. Darcy.

And really, Jane's colour was quite high. Perhaps she was developing a fever? _Oh, la!_ But she _was_ becoming her mother!

"Jane," she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Are you certain that you are well? Your skin has gone the colour of Hill's tarts again. Her sister smiled weakly at the reference, and so she continued. "Pray, how are you feeling? Truly?"

Elizabeth jumped as the reply to her question came not from her sister as she expected, but from the disembodied voice of Mr. Darcy. "May I get you anything, Miss Bennet?" his voice boomed from somewhere behind her, surprising them both from his secluded position beyond the door. "A glass of wine perhaps?"

Elizabeth swallowed, trying not to notice the odd sort of fluttering in her chest. She thought she might like to sit down. Perhaps Mr. Widows could spare a piece of bread for her before the vows took place.

"I am very well, Lizzy," Jane assured her dearest sister with what Elizabeth found to be a suspiciously perspicacious smile and a hard squeeze of her hands. "And I thank you, Mr. Darcy," she called a bit louder, "but it seems as though your time might be better spent with my father and Mr. Bingley."

"Yes, of course," Darcy replied quickly from outside the door, still reeling from the shock of his own interruption. "You are quite right, Miss Bennet. I wish you well."

And with that, the gentleman left the ladies to themselves.

He had no earthly idea where he could locate Bingley or the missing parson, but now was as good a time to locate them as any. Certainly he had sulked outside Miss Bennet's door long enough. And knowing Bingley's overwrought nerves as he did, he began to worry if the gentleman's rush to be early would result in his being late to the altar. This latest evidence of Miss Bennet and Bingley's dissimilar, reciprocal natures was not lost on him, and he felt the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips as he clipped his way down the sloping arcade to the front entry of the church. Jane Bennet would make his friend a fine wife, indeed.

He did not know how he had ever doubted her.

Once the echoes of Mr. Darcy's footsteps deemed him far enough away, Jane approached her sister in the room he had left behind.

 _Very interesting, indeed_ , she mused, watching as her sister smoothed the already perfectly arranged folds of her dress and gazed around the room at nothing. Jane Bennet was many things, but despite all the evidence that might be supplied by her natural sweetness and outward tranquility, she was certainly not daft.

"How nice of Mr. Darcy to call, Lizzy," she announced, keeping an eye on Elizabeth. "Though I will own to some surprise that he chose to leave you with me and not escort you straight to the altar."

As Jane expected, her sister's response was immediate. As Elizabeth jerked her head forward, her elder sister took as much notice of the glint in her eye as she did the slight flush in her cheeks.

 _No secrets between sisters_ , Jane smiled to herself. _Even when keeping secrets from ourselves._

"Jane, we are in a church," Elizabeth scolded in swift, hushed tones.

"And it is my wedding day," Jane countered admirably, moving to stand beside her sister before delivering a long sigh. "I must have something to keep my mind occupied, and I hardly know what to do with myself today but wish others happy."

"You will have to find someone else to wish for then, Jane," Elizabeth declared as the blush which had not gone unnoticed by her most observant sister began to spread. "I believe all of this talk of matrimony has muddled your head. But, as Mama so often says, you are fortunate to have been blessed with a near intolerable beauty. You look so impossibly lovely today that I doubt even your Mr. Bingley would mind if he left the church to find he had married a wife fit for Bedlam."

"Shame, Lizzy!" Jane giggled. "You do a disservice to poor Charles. You know he has likely paced the whole of Meryton this morning. He must be in a terrible state."

"True, true," Elizabeth agreed thoughtfully. "We can only hope that he does outrun his wits and end in Bedlam with you. Whatever will Mama do with no one to call upon at Netherfield!"

As the two sisters laughed together, Jane felt some small part of her own silent nerves rise to the surface. She was to be married today, and she could no longer depend solely upon the security she had long enjoyed from Elizabeth's sisterly affections. She and Charles would have to find their own way. Soon, Elizabeth must learn to do the same. Jane had her own suspicions as to whom her sister might depend upon to secure her future happiness, of course, but she did not wish to make her sister any more uncomfortable than she had done already. Even if she could not trust in that gentleman to secure Elizabeth's regard, she knew that things between herself and her dearest sister would begin to change today. In truth, they had begun to change already. Still, there were things that she must say, and there were things Elizabeth likely needed to hear.

Clasping her sister's hands once more, she indicated they should sit on the small bench near the door. When they were well settled, Jane leaned her head back against the wall and briefly closed her eyes.

"I know I am supposed to treasure this moment, Lizzy," she said slowly. "I have looked forward to it for so long, but truly, now that it is here…I can hardly wait for it to be over with."

"Would you like to go?" Elizabeth teased with a pat of her hand. "I am sure I can have Papa bring around the carriage for us."

"I am not in a hurry to _leave_ ," Jane said, the first traces of her serene smile returning to claim her otherwise solemn countenance. "I am only in a hurry to be Mrs. Charles Bingley. I feel so much… I can hardly explain it, Lizzy! I do not know what to call this feeling which grows inside me, day after day. It has attached itself so thoroughly to my every thought, my every feeling, my every dream. I have a terrible feeling of anticipation that not even a carriage ride to the church can answer for. I am only hoping that it will pass," she turned to face her sister with wide eyes, "Or that it will not! I hardly know."

Elizabeth swallowed the laugh she had struggled to keep inside for the better part of her sister's speech.

"I believe that feeling is meant to be called _love_ , Jane," she smiled affectionately. "Though I am surprised you have not heard of it before, especially as I know full well that several of your novels have been quite clear on the subject. I never knew you to be such an incautious reader."

Unfortunately, her jest fell on deaf ears.

"No," Jane shook her head seriously, her gaze falling somewhere beyond her sister. "I might have called it love before. But this… It defies words, Lizzy. There are no words for the… feeling I feel. It stretches beyond the limits of my imagination. None of those books," she sighed, catching her sister's eye, "not even the _silliest_ among them, have described such an experience in terms that could satisfy. It is as if…" Jane paused here to choose her words carefully, her gaze raising once more to the rafters above. Somehow, she thought this conversation might be an important one, and she meant to do it what little justice she could with her meagre talents of expression.

"I may not yet be his wife, Lizzy. But I feel as if Charles is a part of me, or perhaps that he always has been. Now that I have known him, I cannot remember a time when it felt as though I did not. All of my memories are full of him—not that he was there, precisely, but rather that he was not." Jane sighed again, frustrated by what she was sure sounded like the inarticulate chatter of a madwoman. "Now I have only to wait for our life to begin, for all of my future memories to include Charles, and I find myself… I find myself rather impatient, Lizzy. That is all."

"That is surely love, Jane," Elizabeth breathed on a soft exhale. "It is only that you are so profoundly good that such strength of emotion eclipses all comprehension. You will be very happy, Jane."

"I believe you are right," Jane sighed. "But I will miss you, Lizzy. I will miss this. I hardly know what I shall do without you by my side for every moment of the day, every joy, every concern, or every small vexation. But we will make the best of it, will we not?"

When Jane's eyes returned to those of her sister, both were filled with unshed tears.

"We will," Elizabeth nodded, kissing her sister's hands. "Certainly we will."

It was at that moment that Mr. Bennet arrived—or rather, it was at that moment that Mr. Bennet made his presence known to his daughters. He had adopted the very clandestine position by the door so recently vacated by Mr. Darcy in order to afford his two eldest girls some final moments in one another's company before their lives would change forever. When he entered the room, he was unable to disguise the fact that his own eyes were near as full as those of his darling girls—nor did he wish to. He had never been prouder of either of them.

Yes, this was love.

Jane would do very well indeed.

"Come, Lizzy," his voice cracked across the stone room. "It is time we were introduced to Mrs. Bingley."

Elizabeth rose from her seat on the bench, bestowed her sister with a final kiss on the cheek, and whispered her best wishes in her ear. The words shared between them in that moment would not be the warmest endearments of their lives, but they carried with them all the promises of more to come.

When she pulled herself from Jane's embrace, Elizabeth hurried from the room before either her sister or her father could glimpse the few rebellious tears which had escaped to her cheeks. She wiped away those she could before making her entrance into the long hall which would forever transform her sister from Bennet to Bingley.

Unfortunately, her efforts had not been entirely successful by the time she reached the first pews at the nave's edge. Steadying herself with a raise of her chin and her eyes set forward, she made her way to her appointed position, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her sister was leaving her, but buoyed by the certainty that Jane would know a happiness few had a right to.

When Elizabeth reached her rightful place beside Mr. Darcy near the far edge of the front pew, the stunted tears in her eyes threatened to overflow once more. She averted her eyes as was proper—for she might never live down the shame of crying in front of the whole congregation, let alone Mr. Darcy—but she was almost relieved when she caught sight of him withdrawing a finely pressed handkerchief from his coat. The proof that he had not missed her pained expression soon found its way to her hand, and if the gentleman pressed the neatly folded square into her palm in a manner somewhat more laboriously than was absolutely necessary, Elizabeth took no notice of it. In fact, she was so distracted by the rapid churning of her tumultuous emotions that she saw nothing odd at all in the way he gripped her free hand as she raised his offered handkerchief to her face, nor in the way his thumb stroked softly over the inside of her wrist while she dried her eyes on the smooth fabric that smelled of citrus and spice.

Lost to her thoughts of Jane and Mr. Bingley and _love_ , she was hardly aware of his presence at all until he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Miss Elizabeth," he murmured, hoping to ease her distress. He was no longer sure if his presence was a cause or a relief for her concerns today, but he would attempt it nonetheless. "You need not worry. Charles is a good man. Miss Bennet will be well cared for. I give you my word."

Elizabeth did not immediately reply, transfixed as she was by the sensation of his warm breath on her neck, the faint rasp of her name on his lips, and her growing awareness of his long fingers brushing against hers. She had never heard him speak in such subdued tones, and she found his voice almost impossibly tender for a man who cut such a grand, imposing figure. She felt herself blush and was immediately glad of the fact that their place in the aisle was somewhat hidden from the rest of the congregation by a large column. Mr. Darcy was full of surprises today.

"I do not doubt your word any more than I doubt my new brother, sir," she managed to reply, still somewhat insensible of her surroundings. Though she had meant to thrill the gentleman beside her with the sharp brunt of her characteristic wit, she found that in her bewilderment she could only offer him complete honesty. There was nothing else for it, especially not with his thumb tracing a lazy path across her pulse as it now was. She hoped he could not feel how it raced through the thin lace of her gloves.

"You see, sir, Jane means to share her joy with us all today." Elizabeth smiled at the memory of her sister's words even as she willed her body to ignore the lingering presence of Mr. Darcy's fingertips on her wrist. "She is quite determined. And it is only… I find I do not have the capacity to carry the feeling half as well as she does. I have always known her heart to be at least twice the size of mine, of course, for how else could it contain such happiness? And yet, I feel as though I am seeing the world through her eyes this morning. From the pews to the rafters, and even in my own body, there is a warmth of feeling I cannot describe. The colours are brighter, the light softer, the world seems more at ease. It is as if everything is in its rightful place for once. It is… I do not believe I have the words for it. Jane is quite certain that they do not exist and I find that I am beginning to agree with her."

She lifted her eyes to meet his, suddenly feeling rather breathless, and what she found there bewildered her even more. Mr. Darcy's ever-serious mien seemed to have been replaced by the countenance of a much younger man. The lines which frequently marked the edges of his eyes or marred his brow were gone. She did not ever remember seeing him relaxed before, not even on their many meetings since his return to Hertfordshire, but surely that must be what she was seeing now. She took the opportunity to commit such a captivating rarity to her memory. His expression was meditative, but curious. He was intent. His eyes were soft but his gaze steady. The combination of sentiments expressed therein made her feel as though he were looking right through her. And upon further reflection, she began to notice that his eyes were _not_ the colour of steel, or a summer storm, or even a smouldering fire, as she had many times considered them—they were as prismatic as the sunrise and as deep as the ocean. They were twilight.

"Do you not feel it, Mr. Darcy?" she heard herself whisper.

She felt a slight pressure as his thumb retraced its earlier journey across her wrist. She could practically feel her own pulse throbbing in her ears.

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth," he replied softly, his dusky eyes searching hers. "I do."

At that moment, as if the good Lord above meant to remind them that they were in church—or at least the elderly parson—the room around them was called to order and Mr. Darcy released her hand. They moved to take their places just Mr. Bingley entered the room, and when he appeared before them Elizabeth could not help but return his beaming expression of delight.

"You may be at ease now, Mr. Darcy," she whispered to the still form beside her. "I have not a single worry for my sister or your friend. They will both be well cared for. It is only that I am not well used to being so well put into place by my sister. The soon to be Mrs. Bingley is wise beyond her years."

Darcy's own smile grew widely as Jane and her father appeared at the door. Jane Bennet, who had captured his friend's heart despite all his objections. Jane Bennet, who had shown him kindness and care when she owed him less than nothing. Jane Bennet, who had unknowingly afforded him an opportunity to hope.

"That she is."

For all Darcy's restlessness, Elizabeth's distraction, Jane's quiet elation, and Bingley's quite visible agitation—the ceremony itself seemed to be over before it began.

Jane was escorted down the wide aisle of the church by her father soon after Bingley had taken his place, and Mr. Bennet performed his duty with a reverence and sincerity even his favourite daughter had not seen him display before. Mrs. Bennet maintained an uncharacteristic silence throughout the majority of the ceremony—though any pause on the part of the parson was seized with a fervour which belied her natural tendency towards the ridiculous. Mary traced the outline of Mr. Barber's shoulders to commit them to memory. Kitty thought Jane's new bonnet might set off her own features rather well. Lydia sulked, for she had always meant to be the first Bennet daughter married and had done twice as much as the rest of them to earn such an honour besides.

Jane remained as lovely as ever, though Elizabeth detected a certain glow about her.

Elizabeth was not the only one, of course, as the angle of the light coming in through the newly refashioned windows had framed both Bingley and Jane in a most becoming, nearly ethreal light. In fact, the rather fortuitous glimmer would be frequently remarked upon by the villagers of Meryton for many years to come. Charles would become incredibly fond of the chatter, for it was one of the fondest and, in his nervous excitement, _only_ memories he held of the moment he married his angel.

Darcy saw nothing of Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, their youngest daughters, Jane, or Bingley. He had not a glance to spare for any of them, nor for the parson, the assembled inhabitants of Meryton, or any other person so wholly unconnected to him. His attentions had found a much more agreeable host. And the light in her eyes was not the only memory from this day that he would come to treasure.

As the exiting crowd began to gather outside, Darcy found it difficult to remain in one position for longer than it took to move to the next. Still somewhat rattled by Elizabeth's unconscious display of affection in the church—if that was indeed what it was—he could not help but pace the churchyard where he had met her earlier that morning. His thoughts were as jumbled as his emotions, and so he paid neither of them much mind as he glanced around the crowd hoping to catch sight of her.

When he had grown tired of restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he made another protracted tour of the grounds. On his final turn, he spied not Elizabeth, but her father through an opening in the crowd. Wild horses could not have reached the gentleman any sooner.

Darcy found he had a question of his own for Mr. Bennet.

Without the benefit of either a proper greeting or a congratulation, he blurted out his request before he had taken the time to consider it himself.

"Mr. Bennet," he began. "I wondered if I might speak to you about your daughter?"

* * *

Oh, la! That's it for this week! What do you think should happen next week? Who should we hear from next? What are you dying to know? Leave me some feedback in the comments!


	16. Chapter 16

Okay, team.

Huddle up.

Many sorries, but we are apparently never getting to tea because Darcy is a **CHATTERBOX** and I can't deny him anything. This was meant to be the first half of this chapter, but it ended up pretty long (Darcy Darcy Darcy), so it's been sliced with the best of intentions. I will be traveling again this week, so I am not sure when the next post will be, but expect some (minor) changes to this one in the next few days as it was written on my phone and it's really hard to proofread these teensy tiny words! In the meantime, please let me know what you would like to see happen next in the comments!

I am juggling a lot of storylines and characters (and they all get their time in the sun eventually), but I'll gladly take suggestions for what/when/who you'd like to see us get to first or where you'd like to see them go! I know we skipped a little of the E&D storyline (getting to knoooow yoooou), but I'll either go back and add a few bits to that later or... well, you'll see. ;) We still have a little over half of the story to go, so don't be shy! Build me up or offer your own advice ( _constructive_ criticism and kindness is always appreciated), you guys keep me honest and I love you for it. As always, hit me up with your feedback after reading.

Finally, a great big **THANK YOU** to all who have commented and sent PMs since I began posting PL. This is my first JAFF and I can't thank you all enough for your enthusiasm and encouragement! Writing can be a bit of a lonely exercise (especially when you write on-the-go like I do!), and I really couldn't have made it this far without you.

Alright then! That about does it. Until next time – break!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

 _"_ _This horror will grow mild, this darkness light."_  
— _John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II_ —

A long moment passed as Darcy anxiously awaited Mr. Bennet's response.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Darcy's brow furrowed as he began to wonder if he might need to repeat himself. What had he even said? He had blurted out something about Elizabeth, but that felt like hours ago now. He had not heard that Mr. Bennet was hard of hearing, but in truth he had heard very little about the man at all. He liked books and not ballrooms. So far, the man seemed reasonable. However, Darcy was not one to engage in gossip and was well aware that he was much more likely to be an object of conversation in Meryton than a recipient of it. Perhaps Mr. Bennet was simple minded? Darcy desperately hoped rather than believed that to be the case.

When Mr. Bennet did finally speak, his eyes were alight with a sense of amusement he recognized at once. Darcy swallowed. If the expression he saw therein was any indication, this man was anything but simple.

"You will have to forgive an old man, Mr. Darcy," the elder gentleman offered, rather too casually. "But before I answer your question, I have one of my own."

"Of course, sir," Darcy replied in all seriousness. He clasped his hands behind his back and adopted a pose which the intimidating Master of Pemberley had all but perfected in his reign as the most taciturn gentleman of anyone's acquaintance. He hoped he was not so out of practice that Elizabeth's father would have no trouble seeing through such an obvious facade.

He need not have worried. His impression, or lack thereof, was soon made obvious.

"I have several daughters, Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet replied evenly, removing a handkerchief from his waistcoat to clean his spectacles. "Of which would you like to speak?"

Darcy opened his mouth to respond—he knew not with what, for he assumed anyone's preference amongst the remaining Miss Bennets should be obvious—but Mr. Bennet did not wait for a reply.

"I daresay any discussion with Kitty as its object would be necessarily short, but of course expediency may be your object in approaching a gentleman on his daughter's wedding day. Do you mean to make quick work of a conversation, sir? If not, we might find ample topics of deliberation regarding any of the others you should choose. Mary's admiration for rhythmic literary works perhaps—for I cannot in good conscience call them poetry—Or perhaps your inclination bends towards those more commonly compelling compositions. Shall we argue ribbons and lace, Mr. Darcy? Name your subject and I will happily supply you a fable."

Darcy's grip tightened. Clearly this man was Elizabeth's father in more than name alone.

"Pardon me, sir. I had intended to discuss—that is, I had wished to ask after Miss Bennet."

Mr. Bennet mumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he replaced his spectacles. When he had finished with his adjustments, for there were several, he returned his attention to Darcy with a leisurely shake of his head.

"I am sorry to say that Miss Bennet has recently married. I believe you witnessed the signing of the register yourself, Mr. Darcy. Did you not?"

Darcy felt the set of his jaw grow rigid. This man was insufferable. Of course he had not meant to ask after Jane Bennet! Who could have anything to say of Jane Bennet today? Well, other than acknowledging that it was her wedding day, obviously. And she did look quite well, as she always did. And he was sure she would be very happy, of course. But perhaps the man was simple after all. Anyone could see that the man's second daughter was his greatest treasure.

"Yes, sir," he ventured, hoping his growing irritation went unnoticed.

It did not.

"You must excuse me. I was not speaking of escorting Miss _Jane_ Bennet—"

"Mrs. Bingley."

"Yes, Mrs. Bingley, of course."

Mr. Bennet let out an exasperated sigh as he removed his spectacles once more and held them up in the mid-morning light. Apparently dissatisfied with whatever he found in, on, or beyond his spectacles—for Darcy could see nothing amiss—he turned on his heel and took several long paces across the churchyard in the direction of the back gate before raising his hands back to the heavens.

Darcy followed.

Darcy waited.

At some length, Mr. Bennet spoke.

"Certainly you must see my dilemma, Mr. Darcy," he said to the sky. "I can hardly allow a gentleman who cannot recall which of my daughters he means to discuss—let alone the names of persons apparently rather well acquainted with him—to escort any of my daughters off into the wilds of Hertfordshire. I know it may appear, to the casual observer, that I have a surplus of daughters available, but I am fond of them all as a rule. What if you should misplace one along the way? Mrs. Bennet would be most displeased, and I daresay Mrs. Bingley might have a word or two for you as well on the subject. And it is her wedding day, you know. I believe it was Swift that said one should never trouble a bride with a missing sister, was it not?"

"Yes, Mr. Bennet. Or rather, no—That is to say, I am not sure what Swift had to say on the topic of brides and missing sisters," _if he said anything at all_ , Darcy added to himself, "but I wished to inquire…what had he meant to inquire?

 _Elizabeth!_

"Might I have the honour of escorting Miss Elizabeth to the wedding breakfast... Sir?" he pressed, rushing the words out before Mr. Bennet could take the opportunity to silence him again.

Mrs. Bennet had all the reputation of Meryton's most picksome gabster, but Darcy was beginning to feel as if the boot was on quite the other foot.

Mr. Bennet regarded the younger man with a mixture of boyish delight and rapacious amusement, tinged though as it was by the wary glint which so often accompanied the keen eyes of a father. Darcy, having been considered the top of the trees by nearly all of polite society for some years now, was entirely unprepared for such an expression.

To Darcy, the gentleman positively glowered.

Absorbed as he was in deciphering the odd behaviour of Mr. Bennet—who truly must be quite soft in the head—he missed the wink that the gentleman sent over his shoulder.

"Oh, _Miss Elizabeth_ , is it?" Mr. Bennet quipped, balancing his spectacles once more across the perch of his nose. His brows rose in a show of mock consternation as he shook his head disapprovingly at the befuddled young man who stood before him—or, rather, towered over him. But Mr. Bennet was not easily intimidated. There was a stubbornness about him that never could bear to be frightened at the will—or stature—of others. "I must say, Mr. Darcy, you seem on very familiar terms with my daughter. I would be quite remiss in my duty, sir, if I did not remind you that the fundamental principles of etiquette are the soul of propriety, and of course, that propriety is the soul of… well, most things, to hear Mr. Widows tell it. Have you forgotten the service as well, Mr. Darcy? I begin to worry for your good sense."

 _As do I_ , Darcy repined.

Though he attempted to formulate some outward reply, it seemed he had swallowed his tongue. How had Charles Bingley ever asked this man for more than a by your leave? His Master of Pemberley stance long since lost to the winds, Darcy removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

"Mr. Bennet," he grumbled. "I believe you must be aware that—"

From somewhere behind him, Darcy heard the unmistakable sound of Elizabeth's laughter.

"He is teasing you, Mr. Darcy," her phantom voice called, before the very spectre herself moved to stand beside him. "One would think you would be well-used to the experience by now, but I suppose it has been a long day for all of us."

"Teasing me?" Darcy repeated dumbly, suddenly sent adrift by the brilliance of her eyes.

"Yes," she beamed. "I am Miss Bennet now that Miss Bennet is Mrs. Bingley."

"Of course," he stammered. "Miss Bennet."

Attending to his posture once more, Darcy drew himself up to his full height and returned his attention to her father. He would not be dissuaded. "Mr. Bennet, may I have the honour of escorting your second-eldest daughter to the wedding breakfast this morning? While I have often enjoyed the company of Mrs. Bingley, Miss Mary Bennet, Miss Kitty Bennet, and Miss Lydia Bennet on many other occasions, I confess that I would prefer the company and conversation of _Miss Bennet_ —the very Miss Bennet whom you now see standing here—this afternoon on the walk back to Longbourn. For the wedding breakfast. At Longbourn."

Elizabeth watched with great interest as her father examined the younger gentleman standing before him as he might a horse. Such an appraisal was not lost on Darcy either. What was this gentleman's game? Surely the man could not think him a threat to his daughter's happiness.

 _Did Mr. Bennet consider him a viable threat?_ Darcy's lips drew together in a hard line. He did not know if the thought pleased or disturbed him.

In truth, Mr. Bennet did consider Mr. Darcy a threat, though not in the way the gentleman might have imagined.

Mr. Bennet had heard something of the rumours circulating about town, of course. He was quite certain that many of them began in his own front parlour. After all, he was no stranger to the frantic ravings of his own wife. Still, he was not so indolent a father as many believed, least of all when the safety of his Lizzy was concerned and especially since Lydia's return from Brighton. They had been lucky on that count, but Mr. Bennet had never believed in luck. His elder brother had believed in luck right up until the day he had been thrown off his horse and his younger, timid, bookish brother had inherited all that he was _lucky_ enough to be born to. His wife had believed in luck and had five daughters on an entailed estate to show for it.

No, Mr. Bennet did not believe in luck.

He believed in what his eyes could see and his ears could hear, and though he had been in company with Mr. Darcy but rarely on his previous stay in Hertfordshire, Mr. Bennet had watched and listened while others had spoken, nodded their replies, and awaited their turns to speak some more. His own observations, coupled with Bingley's passionate, though doubtlessly biased testimony, had secured his belief that Mr. Darcy was, in essentials, a good sort of man. Proud, to be sure, but decent—and certainly he was no lecherous, frivolous rake. Mr. Bennet had seen his fill of those at school and he was well-equipped to recognize the signs. Indeed, he had recognized them in his own brother long before anyone else and he had spent half his life paying for his silence as a result.

But he had no desire to dwell on the past today. He wished to think of his girls and their futures.

He knew that his Lizzy had come to place some form of trust in the great man from Derbyshire who had taken up the cottage down the lane—though he knew nothing of the particulars. If he were honest with himself, he had no wish to. Her mind he understood and adored. Her heart was another matter. Ill-suited for the task as he was, he had long since left the care of his daughter's hearts to their mother—and when that had failed, to one another.

However, while his second-eldest and closest daughter might still think herself nimble enough to avoid the creaking floorboards of the back stairs, Mr. Bennet had also lived at Longbourn all his life—and for some twenty-odd years longer than she. He had no more doubt as to the direction of her early morning walks than he had as to her reasons for concealing them. Still, she was a smart girl and an obedient daughter, all things considered, and he knew she would do nothing to disgrace her own good name or that of her sisters. If Lizzy was willing to place her trust in Mr. Darcy, then so would he. He had learned to trust her judgement even more than his own in recent weeks, and so he felt she deserved some small measure of independence which the life of a gentleman's daughter did not readily afford.

And, he smiled, he did rather enjoy Mr. Young's berries.

But there was nothing to be done about it now. If Lizzy wished to walk with the man, her father knew that she would walk with him one way or another. However, Mr. Darcy's application for his permission _did_ provide him with an opportunity he had been waiting for since the first creak of the back stair boards roused him from his sleep. Yes, before long, Mr. Bennet imagined Mr. Darcy would find himself in Longbourn's study—answering a number of questions much less innocuous than which of his neighbour's daughters he would most like to lead home from church.

"Mary," Mr. Bennet called after a long moment had passed, his eyes never leaving Darcy's. "I believe Mr. Darcy and Lizzy would appreciate your company on the walk back to Longbourn."

Darcy frowned. Mr. Bennet's head was about as soft as a boulder. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that the gentleman was even more astute than he was letting on at present.

 _Books and balls indeed._

Elizabeth, he was soon surprised to hear, seemed to agree with his sentiments.

His heart nearly leapt from his chest.

"Perhaps Kitty would like to accompany her, Papa?" she said crisply.

In truth, the last thing Elizabeth wanted to hear today were any more of Mary's sermons, and she was sure to be in a right tear after chattering all morning with Mr. Barber about the proper comportment of young ladies and the wild, untamed passions of young gentlemen. At least Kitty would provide her sister with some distraction for her moralising tones. Lydia was obviously out of the question for any number of reasons.

"I think not, Lizzy," her father grinned. He returned his spectacles to his waistcoat pocket—for he really only required them when reading—before patting her hand and nodding in the direction of Mr. Darcy. "Be off with you now, before I change my mind."

"Yes, Papa," Elizabeth said quickly, gripping Darcy's arm before he had even thought to offer it. Darcy watched her with quiet admiration as Elizabeth nearly dragged him down the lane, astonished by the quick pace she kept despite his much longer legs. Together, they moved through the crush outside the church and onto the small country walking path which rounded the fields behind the ancient rectory.

Darcy knew that it was some distance to Longbourn. In fact, he would never have thought to ask any other lady to accompany him for such a stretch, but neither Bennet sister had objected. He was immensely glad of Elizabeth's company, and he delighted in the fact that she had seemed to wish for his as well—Mary Bennet or no Mary Bennet.

The very young lady herself trotted obediently behind Elizabeth and Darcy as they clipped their way down the overgrown path, her head and heart full of a revolutionary parson in tight breeches.

When they had escaped the last vestiges of civilisation—or what passed for civilisation in the _wilds of Hertfordshire_ , as her father had called them—Elizabeth slowed her gait, suddenly mindful of her partners. She had escaped the church at the earliest possible moment and soon found she had no head for the idle conversation of the assembled well-wishers that followed. When Mr. Darcy had offered the opportunity to walk off her frustrations, she had leapt at the opportunity. However, now that they were alone—or near enough to being so, considering that Mary seemed to have lost her tongue—she was nearing the realisation that perhaps it had _not_ been either the church or the well-wishers she had so desperately wanted to escape.

When she felt Mr. Darcy's arm tense beneath her fingers, she cast about for a suitable topic for conversation. Finding nothing, she settled for grasping at straws.

"Mary," she called over her shoulder. "What were your thoughts on the homily?"

If Mary was attending—or if she had attended the homily at all—she made no sign of it. Glancing behind her, Elizabeth realised that her sister's pace had not equalled that of herself and Mr. Darcy. As a result, she had fallen rather far behind the pair. Only a drab bonnet picking its way across the tree-line indicated her present position, and that slim reminder of her sister's presence would become even fainter when they neared the next bend in the path.

"Would you like us to circle back and inquire within earshot, Miss Bennet?" Darcy teased. "I believe we could reach your sister by Tuesday next if we make quick work of it."

"No, Sir," she offered feebly. "That is quite all right. I thank you."

What had happened to her voice? And why was she suddenly so…unaccountably uncomfortable in his company? She had been alone with Mr. Darcy—certainly much more alone than this—several times since her return to Hertfordshire, and she had never felt… _these feelings_ which she _was feeling_ in his present company. She had no name for them and no interest in investigating their cause any further.

She only knew that she wanted to run.

"I had not realised you possessed such a strong interest in debating scripture," the gentleman continued. "If it pleases you, Miss Bennet, we could discuss the writings of Wilberforce, or the prose of More? Perhaps even Wesley and Whitefield, if you are feeling revolutionary this morning?"

"It would not please me, Mr. Darcy," she snipped in a voice even she found rather irritable. "As I believe you well know."

While Elizabeth regretted her tone, Darcy sought a way forward.

"I thought," he paused. "I thought perhaps we might speak of…" Shaking his head, he seemed to reconsider his words. "Surely we must have _some_ conversation." Turning to her, he quirked a brow in her direction. "It is your turn to say something now, Miss Bennet. I talked about theology, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the length of the walk or the unseasonably pleasant weather."

Despite her sudden, dour mood, she felt herself smiling.

"I assure you, whatever you wish to be said will be said, Mr. Darcy."

He hardly believed that to be the case, but he would keep her smiling.

"Very well, Miss Bennet. That reply will do at present. Perhaps by and by we might discuss the number of parishioners present this morning, or you might offer some observation on the size of Miss Bingley's hat."

Elizabeth laughed. Yes, she certainly had any number of observations to share on _that_ score, but she remained silent as they made their way down the lane. She admired the way he stepped just to the side of the dirt path that led towards Longbourn. Evidently he had noticed how she preferred the way the grasses swept her skirts when she walked. Yes, Mr. Darcy was proving to be much more perceptive than she had initially thought. She did not know if the thought pleased or frightened her.

When she addressed him again some moments later her voice was stern, smug—and more than a little haughty.

"Do you talk by rule then, while you are walking?"

Darcy chuckled at her slighting taunt until he could no longer hold back the decidedly _improper_ spate of laughter which tore though him. Somewhere along the way, he stopped trying. He laughed—fully, freely, and without reservation—for what must have been the first time in months, if not years. He positively roared with it, so much so that he took no notice when they ceased walking completely and Elizabeth turned to face him. When he opened his eyes, Elizabeth was staring at him with a puzzled expression. She handed him a handkerchief from the reticule at her wrist and he wiped his eyes as her own velvet laughter sparked the air around him. He did not mind being the source of her amusement. In fact, he found he rather delighted in the experience.

"Only when I am particularly well acquainted with my partner, Miss Bennet," he said, tucking the borrowed handkerchief into his pocket. It occurred to him that he had not yet received the one he had lent in the church back from her. The very thought thrilled him in ways he could not have imagined.

Elizabeth blushed, thinking of the fine linen handkerchief which still resided in her reticule. She hoped he had not taken notice of its absence.

"Are we particularly well acquainted then?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and looking up at him.

"I believe so, yes," Darcy smiled. "We are friends now, are we not?"

Elizabeth paused. Were they friends? Surely they were friendly with one another, but were they truly _friends_? She was at a loss to understand why such a statement could suddenly cause her such marked vexation.

"I suppose," she said, forcing a smile. Elizabeth turned back to the path and smoothed her skirts. It was time they reached the house. Her family would have already arrived by now, and surely she had other things to attend to—other _friends_ to greet. "Shall we continue?"

If she had expected to receive a response to her request, she would have been disappointed. Mr. Darcy made no sign that he had heard her and remained where he was. Though she did not turn to face him, she felt eager eyes traversing her countenance. Elizabeth neither recognised nor enjoyed the feelings that his steady, intent perusal aroused in her. In truth, she felt rather faint.

Mr. Darcy took a step forward and her heart thundered in her chest. Surely he must be able to hear it—for she believed it was quite likely that near all of Meryton was like to—just as she was certain that he must have felt the frantic throbbing of her pulse as he had stroked her wrist in the church.

 _Stroked her wrist in the church! Great heavens, where was Mary?_

"Does the thought distress you?" he asked. She could not help but note that his voice was once again as low and stirring as it had been when they stood together in the front pew.

"Not at all," Elizabeth lied, her voice catching in her throat. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She would not be intimidated. She could not. There was nothing intimidating about walking from church in the company of a friend. It had already been a long day, after all.

"I am glad to hear it, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy murmured as he leaned forward.

Elizabeth bit down on her lip. Certainly anything she had felt or was feeling must be attributed to the frantic pace of the morning, her mother's nerves, or Jane's gentle tears. It could have nothing at all to do with Mr. Darcy.

 _Blasted bonnets!_ If only he could see her face!

He did not wait long. Elizabeth, who had regained her composure tolerably well since its unexplained disappearance only a moment earlier, lifted her head to meet his gaze with a wry smile.

"As we are now so well acquainted, perhaps I might even prove tolerable company at the next assembly?"

Darcy felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach, presumably never to be seen again. Grasping, he compelled his dry mouth to speak—something, anything, begging his lips to form the words that would make her understand.

"Miss Bennet—"

Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy's face clouded in a striking display of wounded confusion. For a man who was so customarily inscrutable, she had never seen him more clearly. Her intention, which had been to redirect the conversation away from the topic of their _friendship_ and the odd sensations such an appellation provoked in her and back into the more familiar ground of mutual, and trivial, teasing—had clearly teetered wildly off course.

"Forgive me, sir," she whispered. "That was unkind."

Elizabeth turned her attention to her skirts once more, but Darcy would have none of it. He would make her understand. He had to make her understand.

"Unkind?" he protested. "Of you?"

Without thinking, he stepped forward and collected her hands from where she had entwined them in her skirts, lacing her fingers through his own. Using their new position to his advantage, he drew her hands upwards to his chest, forcing her distracted gaze to follow his movements.

"I assure you that nothing you could say to me would ever be perceived as unkind, Miss Bennet," he began. "I must apologise for my comments that evening, and so much more besides. I had not intended for you to overhear…what I said to Mr. Bingley that evening. Indeed, had I know for certain that you had… I would have apologised sooner. Much sooner."

Elizabeth was lost in a sea of swirling, unmanageable emotions. His eyes bore into hers, but she could not look away. She felt herself leaning closer.

 _Friends._

"It is quite all right, Mr. Darcy. We have both, on occasion, said things to one another that might have been best kept to ourselves," she declared, wrenching her hands from his own as all of the shame of her own admission settled upon her. "I am endeavouring to learn from my mistakes."

Darcy blinked back his bewilderment. The woman was determined to remain a puzzle.

"Yes, I suppose we have," he said honestly. "And I would like to think that I have also… that I might yet learn from mine."

"My sister Mary, were she anywhere nearby," Elizabeth chattered nervously, throwing a backwards glance at the open field behind them, "would remind us that none of us are without our faults, and that true goodness lies in our continued efforts to rise above our baser natures. We must simply strive to be a little better than our former selves each day—likely taking Mary as our example, of course."

Darcy returned her hesitant smile, but he refused to let the subject drop so easily. He would follow Miss Mary Bennet's surprisingly good advice and do better today than he had done previously.

"I had received a letter from Georgiana just prior to the assembly, Miss Bennet," he explained. "I had planned to remain at Netherfield, but Charles insisted, and so against my better judgement, I went."

Mr. Darcy took a step backwards and began to pace the pathway, as Elizabeth had seen him do before, when they had first met on the road near the stile. The resurgence of _those_ memories did nothing to settle her precarious equanimity.

"The way I acted," he continued, "I fear that I did not recommend myself well to the neighbourhood when I was last here. I have long considered my poor behaviour that evening to be one of the greatest mistakes of my life."

Mr. Darcy took a deep breath, his back to her, as if to steady himself for what was to come. But a few moments later, Elizabeth would wish she had followed his example.

"If I could only go back…I would have never uttered such a deplorable falsehood, even though it did achieve my objective of having everyone, especially Bingley, steer well clear of me for the whole of the evening and some time after. Instead, I would have demanded an introduction to the most enchanting woman in the room and told you precisely how radiant you looked that evening."

Elizabeth was unprepared for the quick turn which followed this most unexpected pronouncement, and nearly fell out of her walking boots as he swept towards her. He stopped just short of the space he had previously occupied, though his scorching gaze remained as compelling as it had on the few occasions she had seen it before, despite any decrease in his proximity. Somehow, he seemed closer to her than he ever had before.

"You were," Darcy continued, his voice faltering slightly over the words. "No, you _are_ the most handsome woman of my acquaintance, Miss Bennet. And I was a fool not to tell you so at once. You cannot possibly believe those words, not with everything I have—" he paused in an effort to regain his composure.

 _Friends._

"I am heartily ashamed of the miserable first impression created by my poor manners that evening, Miss Bennet. Not only to you, but to all of Meryton. You do not know how those memories have tortured me."

Elizabeth practically gulped for air. Where was Mary? And here was Mr. Darcy, halfway to a declaration in the middle of an empty, muddy field on her sister's wedding day, but _oh!_ Surely he was saying nothing of the kind.

 _Was he? No, certainly not._

They were friends, of course. Were they not? He had repeatedly pressed the point. She would not fall into her usual pattern of misunderstanding him. He was a good man, after all. A very good man.

She suddenly wished she had seen it before.

Yes, friends they were—and friends they would remain. She had no desire to injure him any further and she, as Mary regularly insisted, would do better on this than she had done in the last. She offered him a genuine, cheerful smile and took hold of his arm just as her misplaced sister made her way around the bend.

"I had hoped that friendship would have tuned our opinions, Mr. Darcy," she chirped, patting his hand. "But once again we are at odds! You speak of first impressions as though they were writ in stone."

Darcy nodded, the knots in his brow relenting as he focused all of his attentions of the feeling of Elizabeth's delicate grip tightening around his own.

 _Friends. Of course._

"And you were speaking of something else?" he asked, his feet finally responding to his repeated calls to lead them in the right direction.

"Most assuredly, sir," Elizabeth smiled. "I was speaking of second chances."

He wanted to kiss her senseless when he heard such generous words falling from her sweet lips—but obviously such a response would be quite outside the bounds of their newly established friendship. He had no wish to press his luck at present. Elizabeth had proclaimed them friends, and as he could no longer offer her any more than that, despite how much he might have wished to, he was glad of any opportunity to remain near her. He knew such a delicate balance would ultimately prove unsustainable, but at the moment he could not bring himself to care. If Elizabeth Bennet was desirous of his presence, he would be a fool to go elsewhere—no matter the cost to his pride, his better judgement, or even his own feelings on the matter.

"I have never given much credit to the idea of second chances myself. People are who they are," he answered honestly.

"Perhaps, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth replied with a bright smile. "Perhaps your good opinion once lost is best left lost forever. Perhaps we are always the same in essentials as our first impressions suggest." Without a second thought, she squeezed his hand once more and glanced up at him through her lashes. "But I hope you will not deny that an opportunity to form a better understanding of a person's _true character_ might allow you to develop a better opinion of them, despite the fact that their previous behaviour might have failed to recommend them to you in the past."

"I would not deny you that, Miss Bennet," Darcy smiled.

"I am glad to hear it," she sighed.

They continued towards Longbourn in a companionable silence for some time before she continued. In truth, she had been choosing her words carefully since he had related his story of their first meeting at the Meryton Assembly. He had sought to assuage her wounded pride, and now, she would see to his. She would do the same for any friend.

She cleared her throat.

"You are not the man I met last November, Mr. Darcy. You have not been for some time now—though in essentials, I believe you are very much the same as you ever were. I am glad to have the opportunity for a second chance to sketch your character for myself. I can only hope my skills have improved somewhat since our first meeting. My rudimentary arts afforded neither of us much credit last autumn and I mean to make the best of our renewed acquaintance. I find myself… very glad to call you a friend."

For once, Darcy was glad that Elizabeth's bonnet shielded her from his view, and him from hers. Stunned into silence, he could only reach across his chest to pat the small hand which now lay on his opposite arm to signal his agreement.

Elizabeth, blushing furiously beneath the safety of her bonnet, was glad of the protection it afforded her in this instance. For as much as she _was_ glad to have an opportunity to regain his good opinion and develop a friendship with the gentleman—she could not stop the rush of memories which now suffused her every thought, expression, and gesture. She could not stop thinking of the last decidedly _unfriendly_ conversation which had passed between them—when the very man walking beside her had declared himself ardently in love with her and requested that she relieve his suffering and consent to be his wife.

 _Where would they be now if she had relented?_

"Now then, Mr. Darcy," she coaxed, shaking such idle thoughts from her head. "What have you to tell me of your recent adventures in nursery crops? As you well know, a proper walk requires some conversation."

"I think that a fine idea, Miss Bennet," Darcy replied with a smile. "We may compare our different opinions. But what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."

"Books, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth laughed. "We shall speak next of books, so that we might compare our different opinions."

"I look forward to it, Miss Bennet."

And he did.

* * *

Warmer! We're getting warmer! Much tea and drama in the next (two) posts. Where we go next is anyone's guess, including yours!

Sound off in the comments now for a virtual lemon tart and a lot of love.


	17. Chapter 17

Hello all!

We FINALLY made it to breakfast! YAAAAAAAAAAY!

Before we get to tea, I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for sticking with PL despite my frequent tangents and the looming mystery of Pemberley! Both have been brought up in the comments once or twice, so I thought it best to address them here.

I'll likely end up adding a bit more of the Pemberley storyline back into these chapters on a post-edit and removing/moving some other content for length, but since this is a WIP, I don't feel comfortable going back into past chapters to edit-in such plot-heavy information (most of the time lol) or so being so heavy-handed with my first drafts. I never intended for the current E&D storyline to fill so many pages, but I guess that's what happens in a WIP (as I'm learning)! Sometimes my words get away from me while I'm trying to work everything out and right now I'm just following where they take me.

Also, as a side note, I think one of the reasons we're not hearing much about Pemberley is because Darcy is very purposefully avoiding that subject as well! ;)

This chapter is a looooooooong one, almost twice the usual length - and I came down with a sudden case of the "oh-my-it's-all-wrong-change-everything"s when I realised that I had a pretty sizeable continuity hole right there in the middle of the whole mess on what was literally my last read through. Top that off with some posting problems and, well: here we are.

SO, I had to make a minor tweak all the way back in Chapter 13 for _this_ chapter to work (after much back and forth about which version of the Wickham-Lydia storyline I felt fit PL best). It worked better for the story overall if Darcy remains unaware of Lydia's identity before now, so Chapter 13 has been edited to reflect this change as well.

Hope that's clear enough for now, but please let me know if there are any questions/continuity blips/or literally anything else.

 **TL;DR:** Darcy's memory of _Lydia_ being the girl who nearly eloped with Wickham has been erased, Men In Black style. In the updated version, Elizabeth says 'a friend' has been deserted by Wickham and the good people of Meryton are after the man for his debts.

As an apology, I'm posting **the most ridiculous recap I've ever written** today.

Here it is:

 **FITZWILLIAM DARCY, THE FLUSH HEIR OF MAYFAIR  
** _a vocal arrangement in the style of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air"_

Now this is a story all about how  
Darcy's life got turned upside down  
And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there  
I'll tell you all about how ODB lost Pemberley and life got unfair

In northern Derbyshire, born and raised  
Kickin it with Bingley is where he spent most of his days  
Chillin' out, maxin', dressin' all cool,  
And all shootin' some birds or makin' ladies drool  
Then a guy name Hadley who was up to no good  
Started makin' trouble in his neighborhood  
He showed Darcy some IOUs and our man got mad  
And said "Georgie, you're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Mayfair"

She begged and pleaded with him day after day  
But he packed her trunks and sent her on her way  
This mess with Hadley sure opened up the spigot  
So Darcy got his stuff together and said "I might as well kick it"  
Second class, yo, this is bad!  
Pickin' his own apples and tending Bingley's rented land  
Is this how the people of Hertfordshire livin' like?  
Hmmmm here comes Elizabeth, this might be alright!

But wait, Meryton's mamas have something to add!  
Is this the type of place where a person's reputation can turn bad?  
I sure think so! Mrs. Bennet, have a care!  
I hope you'll spread word that Wickham's the cad!

Well, uh, Elizabeth showed up when Darcy came out  
There he was lookin all' fleek even covered in mud  
He ain't tryin' to get heartbroken, he just got here!  
But Elizabeth's quickness sure made his reservations disappear  
He whistles a happy tune while tendin' to his crops  
Elizabeth is a good neighbor and that sure rocks  
If anything I could say that this love is rare  
But Darcy thinks "Nah, the girl deserves Mayfair!"

They pull up to the church about 7 or 8  
Jane and Bingley marry despite some minuscule angst  
But when Darcy comforts Elizabeth by touching her hand  
The man thinks he might be nearing the promised land!  
Too bad Mr. Bennet just won't play along  
When Darcy asks if he can walk Miss Bennet home  
But Mary makes a bad chaperone, and when they're almost there  
Darcy apologizes to our dear girl and she feels sad

Despite many vexations and all their hesitations  
When will our dear couple realize what they have?

There you have it!

And thank you again to everyone who has been following along and commenting! This is my first attempt at JAFF and I sure picked a behemoth from my plot bunny farm, but you have all been so incredibly encouraging and enormously helpful that it has seemed possible to tackle this story more often than not! I do try and respond to every comment I receive, so if you haven't heard from me yet - you soon will!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

 _"What is dark within me, illumine."_  
— _John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I_ —

Mrs. Bennet had outdone herself—and was enormously pleased with the results.

Though she knew that much of society was of a mind that wedding breakfasts should be small, simple, inevitably bleak affairs, the mistress of Longbourn was all pomp and pageantry as a rule, and she would not have the good people of Meryton forgetting it for all the lace in London.

Certainly not today!

It was no great secret that the enviable combination of beauty and a sweet, docile nature had long since marked Jane Bennet as her mother's favourite. This fact was naturally reflected in the lavish preparations Mrs. Bennet had made for her eldest daughter's departure, or so most of the assembled guests believed. However, no one in Meryton knew Mrs. Bennet half so well as her sister, Mrs. Phillips, and her long-time friend and rival, Lady Lucas. Although neither woman could ever be confused with a wit, they were wise enough to divine the true reason for the lady's brazen, costly arrangements.

Mrs. Bennet had four other daughters to marry.

And so, the path to Longbourn had been strewn with flowers and herbs as soon as the ceremony had taken place, and a newly hung, elaborate wreath welcomed the many friends and neighbours of the family as they made their way in from the church. The parlour and downstairs sitting rooms had been decorated with the finest ribbons and lace that Mrs. Bennet's meagre budget had allowed—and some that it had not. As she still had some weeks before her husband was likely to notice the discrepancy in her accounts, she was determined to enjoy the occasion.

Jane Bingley was less pleased with the arrangements.

Though she acknowledged that the effects of her mother's handiwork were lovely, she could not stop herself from totalling the sums that such a display implied. She hoped, rather than believed, that her mother had remained somewhat in mind of her father's funds while executing her extravagant plans. The family accounts were, in all likelihood, rather low, given that her parents had already paid handsomely for her trousseau. As Jane, like her father, knew that the harvest would not take place for some weeks yet, she could not help but let the old, familiar worries creep in.

Leaving her mother, who remained near the door in order to accept the many compliments for her efforts, Jane quietly made her way to the parlour where she knew she would find the wedding buffet and the bride's cake. Charles Bingley, already thoroughly enjoying his new role as Jane's husband, followed dutifully in her wake. When they arrived at the elegantly prepared trays of buttered toast, sweetmeats, fresh baked rolls, ham and eggs, they each expressed their sincere gratitude to the elderly woman who had spent the majority of her morning fussing over their arrangement. Hill's only reply was a tight nod of concession, but Jane was happy to note that the colour in her cheeks had never been higher.

Jane's worries only began to subside when Charles' surprised her with a surreptitious squeeze of her hand. She gazed into his eyes, risking all the fluttering feelings such an exhilarating action gave rise to. She was Jane Bingley now. And Jane Bingley was no less determined to enjoy their wedding day than her husband.

She would think of her mother later.

By the time that the trio of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth, and Mary arrived at Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet was in rare form. She had spent the better part of half an hour pluming herself on the back her many achievements—long enough that the sight of Lizzy coming up the drive put her in mind of all that she had yet to do.

"There you are, Lizzy!" she cried in exasperation. "Into the house with you, girl! I would have you serve tea with your sisters and you are already late. I cannot claim to know what your father was thinking when he allowed you to idle your way home from the church for so long, but of course _he_ has no thought for your reputation."

Mrs. Bennet's last words were directed not at her second eldest, but at Mr. Darcy. If she took any note of Mary's presence at all, she—at least—was spared her mother's censure.

As Elizabeth pulled her sister into the house and was followed in by Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Bennet's icy stare ensured that her orders remained clear.

Earlier that morning, their mother had found the time to explain the behaviour she expected from her daughters today. Namely, the behaviour she expected was Jane's. Mrs. Bennet had wasted no time in apprising her daughters of their new responsibilities. Before they had even dressed, she had made quick work of informing them that when Jane departed the house to begin her new life as Mistress of Netherfield Park, the Miss Bennets who remained would need to double their efforts to secure their own matches.

"A married man in possession of a fortune does not look kindly on dependent relations with four unmarried daughters," Mrs. Bennet had advised. "One of you, at least, likely two, will need to marry soon, and rather well—or as well as can be arranged. None of you are like to find a man so well settled as Mr. Bingley, except Lydia, of course. Or perhaps Kitty, if she would grow into her gowns a bit more as Lydia has. Still, it would be better for your sisters if you married first Lizzy," her mother quipped, examining her daughter with a critical eye. "If you can manage a second proposal, that is—though I would not count on it myself."

Mrs. Bennet nodded, agreeing with herself, as her daughters made their way into the house to begin the wedding service. If any of them were to find an acceptable gentleman to claim as a husband amongst the assembled guests or their relations, they would need to appear to their best advantage today—meaning that they would need to look, act, and sound as much like Jane as was possible. Any man willing to marry any of them was like to need more inducement—and incentive—than Mr. Bingley had. None of them were as beautiful as Jane, of course, but Mrs. Bennet considered them all quite pretty enough to be rich.

As Elizabeth and Mary rushed to help Hill ready the tea, Mrs. Bennet's appraising glare followed them. When she caught sight of Mr. John Barry, the heir to Netherfield Park and the Bingley's current landlord—thus a more than adequate match for any of her daughters—approaching her Lizzy, her grimace gave way to a sly smile.

Yes, _this_ she could work with. Perhaps a second proposal was not too much to hope for after all?

Darcy's eyes also followed the Bennet sisters, but he was far less gratified by the results.

He recognised John Barry at once; they ran in similar circles when in Town and shared a number of acquaintances. And, of course, he knew him from his recent dealings with Bingley, who was still deciding whether to make a purchase offer for Netherfield or to see about extending the lease. It was not Mr. Barry's character which worried him. Though he knew him but a little, he had never heard anything of the gentleman's behaviour which could have concerned him. No, it was the direction of Barry's gaze which set Darcy on edge.

It, much like his own, now fell squarely on Elizabeth Bennet.

As John Barry made his way towards Elizabeth, Darcy moved backwards, wishing he could sink into the walls. Not for the first time that day—and certainly not for the last—Darcy cursed himself for all his previous mistakes.

 _If only he had not taken his frustrations regarding George Wickham out on Elizabeth at their first meeting. If only he had not allowed his family and his own faulty assumptions about the world to get in the way of his feelings. If only he had flattered her, been kind to her, thought of her as an equal and not an encumbrance—if only he had been a better man from the start._

But, if he had done all that—and more—and somehow had persuaded Elizabeth Bennet to feel some measure of what he felt for her… Well, he would have only disappointed her in the end. Hyatt Hadley would still have come to call and Darcy would still have been forced to fulfil his father's obligations. Would he not?

In retrospect, he was not entirely sure. Certainly, he had felt bound by duty—and disgust—to honour his father's debts, but if he had succeeded where he had failed, if he had been able to win her, woo her, please her, _love_ her—he shook his head, unwilling to entertain the punishing thoughts which would undoubtedly follow. There was no point to it.

There was no point to any of it.

Tearing his eyes from Elizabeth, he forced himself to take the requisite steps across the room which would place him beside Bingley. As the room was crowded, it was no easy task. Mrs. Bennet had apparently invited all of Meryton to rejoice in her success. Darcy tried, and failed, to swallow his natural disgust for such indecorous vaunting.

Bingley, however, was as amiable as ever, if not more so. This also irked his friend. He could not account for any particular reason for his sudden black mood, but as Bingley laughed, and smiled, and returned his doe eyes to his beloved again and again, Darcy found himself choking back a feeling which very much resembled jealousy. He was not entirely unfamiliar with the feeling, but he had always considered it well below his breeding to actually entertain such thoughts in company.

And he was happy for his friend, he reminded himself—turning his eyes from Elizabeth for what must have been the third time since adopting his new position.

Bingley had done well for himself and had more to show for it than most. He had also chosen well in Jane Bennet. Bingley had seen her better qualities when Darcy had not. Darcy, who had prided himself on his ability to divine the truest nature of a person based upon a handful of words and the briefest exposure to their company. Darcy, who had charged her with—at the very least—being so vapid and amenable that she would risk the heart of a good man to ensure the comfort of her family. At the worst, he had thought her a fortune huntress of the highest order.

But Jane Bennet—Jane Bingley, was none of those things.

She was a kind-hearted, caring, and respectable woman. She was all that was good and proper, and he berated himself once more for thinking so ill of her—or anyone capable of earning the admiration, confidence, and affection of Elizabeth Bennet.

Excepting—of course— _John Barry_ , who was evidently doing his best to make himself agreeable to her. _John Barry_ , who laughed, and smiled, and complimented, and evidently interested her, if the sheer number of words exchanged between the pair and the light flush of her cheeks was any indication. _John Barry_ , who apparently had a bottomless appetite for tea and idle conversation. _John Barry,_ who had better find someone else to enamour if he knew what was good for him.

Darcy scowled, so lost in his own thoughts that he neither knew nor cared if anyone noticed.

And they did.

"Mr. Darcy," Jane Bingley's soft voice called, her light tones cutting through his dark thoughts. "I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but you are looking rather unwell. Perhaps you would benefit from some tea?"

Darcy turned his attention to Jane Bingley, suddenly embarrassed by the rising tide of his emotions. Loosening his grip on the table beside him—which he now realised was rather tight—he attended to the party assembled around him for what must have been the first time that morning.

"I thank you, Mrs. Bingley," he announced, clearing his throat. "But I am quite well."

Jane merely nodded her agreement, though she certainly did not agree.

"Tea sounds lovely," Bingley practically burst from beside him. "Darcy would you care to—"

Whatever Bingley was about to suggest, which Darcy was already preparing to deflect, was interrupted by the appearance of his sister, Caroline Bingley.

"Mr. Darcy," Caroline simpered, furiously batting her eyes in his direction. "How kind of you to attend dear Charles and Jane's little party." Never one to miss an opportunity at what she perceived to be an advantageous slight, she could not help but add, "Though it is sure to be the event of a lifetime for Mrs. Bennet. Why, there are so many people here! One would think she had invited all of Hertfordshire!"

When she caught Jane's eye a moment later, her tone necessarily softened. She had no love for the Bennet family, but she would not risk losing the good opinion of her new sister—not so soon, at least.

"But of course there are so many who must desire to wish you well, dear Jane!" she exclaimed, sounding more than a little disingenuous to Darcy's practiced ear. While it was true that he had learned a hard lesson with regard to prematurely judging the characters of strangers, Caroline Bingley was in no way unfamiliar to him. Although he had briefly considered Caroline as a potential match when Charles had first introduced the, he had ultimately decided that she was too much like himself in essentials and too unlike himself in nearly every way else. He enjoyed her company well enough in small doses, but a life spent under the same room with her would make them both miserable. Not that any of that mattered now. Those had been the thoughts of a much different Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had lived a much different life no more than five months ago.

As Caroline prattled on about the _subtle charm_ of the church, the _marvellous effort_ of the decorations, and the _fascinating choice_ of a wedding buffet, Darcy allowed his mind to wander back to the somewhat more pleasant thoughts—and undeniably more appealing prospect—of Elizabeth Bennet.

Caroline continued to include Mr. Darcy in her conversation, trying to appear as though she were not half so annoyed as she felt at present. It was true that her behaviour towards him had vacillated wildly since his unexpected return to Hertfordshire, but that was no reason that he should ignore her. Their interactions of late had been part playful banter and part quiet contention. She did not entirely know how to manage him and she did not like the feeling.

Initially, she had been quite vocal about his decision to remain at the cottage rather than Netherfield Park itself, but her brother—almost to his credit—had remained firm. Charles had explained, several times, that Darcy had returned to Hertfordshire in order to help rebuild their rapidly depleting staff and aid him in his decision to either the purchase the estate or give up the lease entirely. He had not, according to her brother, come for his own pleasure—or to provide entertainment for anyone else. As Charles was frequently busy with his own business, questions regarding the estate, or the preparations for his upcoming wedding to Jane Bennet, Mr. Darcy had only visited the main house on a few occasions since arriving from Town.

Caroline had, for the most part, accepted this explanation and all of the many small annoyances which accompanied it.

She knew little about the purchasing, management, or running of an estate, though it was of tantamount importance to her that her relative inexperience in this area went unnoticed by as many as possible—especially Fitzwilliam Darcy. If the man wanted to muck around in the countryside tending to rose beds, digging holes, and whatever else one did in fields—she would leave him to it. Eventually, he would return to Netherfield's drawing room and save her from a life as either Mrs. Bingley's dutiful sister, or worse—Louisa's houseguest.

Still, Caroline was not without friends or unaffected by gossip. She had—unbeknownst to either her brother or Mr. Darcy—been informed of some rather salacious gossip regarding the Master of Pemberley from some of her more fashionable friends in Town. Though such reports set her mind whirling with possibilities, she had learned nothing specific as of yet—which did not stop her from repeating select portions of the same vague tales to some of her least fashionable friends in the country. As a hostess, she felt it was her duty to entertain her guests, and really, Mr. Darcy should have attended dinner more. After all, more than one of her correspondents had implied that Mr. Darcy's extended stay in Hertfordshire had more to do with his fleeing a woman, his creditors—or both—than her brother's rented estate.

Not knowing what to believe, Caroline's feelings for Darcy varied at least as often as the weather. Today, bolstered by the loss of her title as Mistress of Netherfield and the acquisition of a very unwanted sister, not to mention the unfortunate family she brought with her, Caroline Bingley saw only sunny skies ahead.

"Don't you agree, Mr. Darcy?" Caroline finished with a flourish, both parties rather unsure about what she had asked.

"Yes, of course," Darcy mumbled. Jane Bingley's eyes were on him again and he was feeling rather self-conscious. Had he been watching Elizabeth all that time? Was he making himself conspicuous?

He was—and to more than just Jane Bingley.

Elizabeth, ostensibly still applying herself to the task of pouring tea for the wedding guests and attending to the rather animated conversation of Mr. Barry, was in fact doing nothing of the kind. She had felt Mr. Darcy's burning gaze fall upon her more times than she could count. She did not know how she could be aware of such a thing, particularly when he stood to the other side of the room and she had to turn her head to see him, but she was. She was so aware of him, in fact, that she thought she had spilled at least as much tea as she had managed to pour into the cups before her.

Mr. Barry seemed to find her discomfiture somewhat amusing, and he remained at her side for longer than Elizabeth considered entirely proper. She hoped he had not attributed her heavy-handedness to any nervousness she might feel in his presence, but it could hardly be helped now. If she had any misconceptions to straighten out with Mr. Barry, they would have to be settled later. For now, her head was full of Mr. Darcy.

"Charlotte!" she called, startling herself out of the jumbled haze which had marked her thoughts for most of the morning.

Charlotte Collins, once Charlotte Lucas and still one of her dearest friends, caught Elizabeth's eye from where she stood near Mrs. Bennet with her own mother. Elizabeth's cousin, Mr. Collins, was nowhere to be found—and Elizabeth was immensely glad of it. She was unaccountably out of sorts today and could not afford to waste what little patience she had on the bothersome parson.

"Elizabeth!" Charlotte cried, grasping her friend's hands in an affectionate greeting. "I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear that Jane's wedding would correspond with our visit to Hertfordshire!"

Elizabeth readily agreed. Despite being relations, the Collinses would have had no reason to travel all the way from Kent only to attend Jane's wedding. Even Bingley's family had remained in the North and would only make the acquaintance of his new bride when the couple embarked on their wedding trip.

After Charlotte and Mr. Barry had been properly introduced, the gentleman left the friends to themselves. Elizabeth appreciated his consideration and made a note to pay closer attention to his conversation the next time they were in company. He was a nice man, after all, and they had been good friends once. It would be thoughtless and unkind of her to disregard his society. Perhaps, as her mother suggested, she should endeavour to adopt some of Jane's more virtuous qualities. Mr. Barry might make an excellent neighbour, if the Bingleys were to give Netherfield up—and he would certainly make Kitty an excellent husband.

Charlotte had just begun to share a particularly entertaining tale documenting their journey out of Kent when her eyes grew wide and serious. Her grip on Elizabeth's hands tightened.

"Lizzy," she gasped, "is that Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in confusion. Surely she had mentioned Mr. Darcy's presence in her letters to Charlotte, had she not? A moment's consideration of Charlotte's stunned features—now twisted into an unfamiliar display of shock and horror—revealed that no, apparently she had not.

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed in a voice made weak by her confusion. "Charlotte," she pressed, following the startled gaze of her friend to where it fell upon Mr. Darcy's broad figure at the edge of the room. "Whatever troubles you about Mr. Darcy?"

"Oh no," Charlotte bleated, evidently not hearing her. "Oh no, Lizzy. Oh, no!"

Elizabeth trailed the jerk of Charlotte's head, only to be met with the _exceedingly_ undesirable sight of Mr. Collins. When Charlotte began to glance worriedly between the two men, Elizabeth could stand the strain imposed by her friend's silence no more.

"Charlotte," she demanded. "Why should you fear Mr. Darcy?"

"No," Charlotte said, her voice tense. She turned back to her young friend and met her bewildered expression with a flash of her eyes that chilled Elizabeth to the bone. "You must get him out of here, Lizzy."

It was at that moment that Elizabeth understood—or understood well enough to act.

Charlotte had not been the only Collins to spot Mr. Darcy at the corner of the room. As the two women looked on in horror, Mr. Collins stalked forward, his face red with anger and his knuckles full-white.

The sea of wedding guests that had packed into the small room began to part as Mr. Collins made his way towards the buffet, their faces alight with a morbid curiosity that Elizabeth recognised. She watched as the tide of the room begin to turn. Elizabeth was well used to such tacitly indiscreet displays of interest and animosity from her neighbours. She was a Bennet after all, and her mother could typically be found hoisting the sails.

If all of Meryton had not been talking about Mr. Darcy or the Bennets already, they certainly would be soon.

"Elizabeth," Charlotte whispered. "Go!"

Elizabeth did not need to be told. She was already scurrying from her position near the fireplace when Charlotte had spoken, taking the most direct route towards Mr. Collins as she was able. He was quick, however, and benefited by both his tall stature and total lack of decorum, he soon proved more adept at pushing his way through the assembled guests. Elizabeth did retain one advantage though, and she carried it before her like a great battering ram—the teapot she still clutched in her hands.

They reached Mr. Darcy's side at nearly the same time, with Mr. Collins' arrival preceding her own by mere seconds. She could only see the side of his face now, but it was clear that her cousin was near boiling with rage. Elizabeth's wide eyes, brimming with confusion, met the clear gaze of Mr. Darcy for only the briefest of moments before the silence around them was broken by what Elizabeth could only describe as the ravings of a madman.

"You!" Mr. Collins' shouted, causing the half of the room not already following his display to rapidly turn their heads. "How dare you disgrace the home of my good family with your presence! Your boldness knows no bounds, sir! Have you no thought for their good name? Have you no sense of reason, propriety, or—"

Mr. Collins' latest and most indecorous sermon was interrupted by a sudden splash of hot, dark liquid which shot upwards from Elizabeth's trembling hands. She had not thought of what she might do once she reached the gentlemen, but a well-timed, only half-feigned trip soon made her decision for her.

The empty teapot, its contents now covering the disgruntled parson, fell to the floor where it shattered into what felt like thousands of pieces.

"Cousin Elizabeth!" the sputtering colossus cried, his face and shirt drenched in her mother's best tea. "Impertinent, cow-fisted chit! If I were your keeper," he sneered in a lower voice, his hard eyes now fixed on her, " _you_ would know the thrash of a stick as well as your own name!"

Mr. Darcy's movements were swift and to the point.

In the space of a single heartbeat he had seized her cousin by his dampened coat and pulled him through the open door behind them. Elizabeth followed, not knowing what assistance she could possibly render—to either gentleman—when it came down to it, but her rising nausea and the sense of panic which compelled her to move would have it no other way.

When the unhappy trio fell into the hall, Elizabeth felt herself go cold.

She could only gape at the dark inferno swelling in Mr. Darcy's narrowed eyes—her pulse racing to the same rhythm that she observed in the thundering curve of his throat.

"You will apologise to Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy growled through clenched teeth. Elizabeth's throat went dry at the sound of her name.

"I will do no such thing," Mr. Collins stammered, his fleeting bravado momentarily giving way to his more characteristic cowardice.

A long silence passed in the hall as Darcy mentally counted off all of the many reasons he should not simply kill the man where he stood.

"Who are you to tell me how I might speak to my cousin?" Mr. Collins finally bleated, summoning the last vestiges of his courage to continue. How had it all gotten so out of hand! Surely Cousin Elizabeth must see that he, as her cousin and the heir to her father's estate, had only been acting in her best interest! Lady Catherine de Bourgh had made it quite clear to him that Mr. Darcy was not to be trusted. The man was an unscrupulous fraud, a seducer of women, and a degenerate gambler! Why, Lady Catherine de Bourgh had informed him—in the closest confidence, of course—that Mr. Darcy had attempted to direct all of his own relations down a ruinous path before disappearing entirely. And he had thrown over Anne de Bourgh, besides! The family would no longer even speak his name! Certainly such an immoral creature should not be anywhere near _his own family_! It was his duty as a clergyman to see that the beast was shown the door, for their own sakes as well as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. This would soon be _his_ house, after all!

"Why," the sodden clergyman croaked as Mr. Darcy's eyes flashed murder. He was suddenly near to losing his nerve, but Lady Catherine—and, he supposed, Elizabeth—must be protected. "I am almost her nearest relation!"

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment and held her breath—waiting.

She did not wait long, although the voice which sounded next surprised her—surprised them all, in fact.

"And yet," her father's voice asserted, "you are not her nearest relation, nor her _keeper_ , as you so eloquently put it a moment ago. Nor are you ever likely to be, if I have any say in the matter." Elizabeth watched in awe as he father gave Mr. Collins the set-down he had so long deserved. "You, Mr. Collins, are no one to Elizabeth, and you are no one to me. You will leave this house immediately and you will not return as long as I live and breathe."

"Cousin Bennet!" the blubbering parson protested. "You do not know what he is! You have let a lecherous, loathsome wolf into your good home and he has drawn you in!" Imploring his cousin with pleading eyes, Mr. Collins attempted to make them all see reason. It was no easy task. Mr. Darcy had released his coat, but he remained entirely too close for comfort. "I do not know under what pretence he has deceived you, sir—but I have had it from my noble patroness, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh, that… that this man is not to be trusted!"

"Enough!" Mr. Bennet hissed. Turning his attention to the quiet, towering pillar of rage to his right, Elizabeth's father addressed him in a louder voice than he might otherwise have done to ensure that the gentleman heard him. "Mr. Darcy, would you be so kind as to show Mr. Collins to the door?"

When Mr. Darcy only grunted his approval, Mr. Bennet found it necessary to add, "Gently, if you please, sir. While this man may no longer be welcome in my home, he is still my family. And he is still a member of the clergy."

Mr. Darcy said nothing, his eyes still glinting like two great kindled coals—but he nodded his understanding again and that was good enough for Mr. Bennet.

When the men had departed, only one of them of his own volition, Mr. Bennet drew close to his daughter's side, drawing her shaking hands into his. "Are you well, child?" he asked with soft eyes. His Lizzy was made of stern stuff, he knew, but he could not wonder at her state of agitation. To be so abused in her own home! And on Jane's wedding day! Mr. Bennet had a few threadbare nerves of his own.

"Yes, Papa," Elizabeth breathed, seeking to soothe her own tension as well as his. She could not help but worry for Mr. Darcy until she set her eyes on him again. She did not exactly think that Mr. Collins would hurt him, but she worried for him regardless. "I am only… I am embarrassed, I think."

"Ah, well," her father replied with a shake of his head. His Lizzy was a hard woman to rattle, and—blessedly—nothing like her mother. He would have a much harder time of it there, if his wife had not already descended into a fit of hysterics in the middle of her own drawing room. "What is life but a series of small embarrassments and vexations?" he smiled, gratified to see that she returned the gesture. "People will talk, as people do, but it will pass soon enough. Mr. Collins has few friends in Meryton to boast of and your mother will certainly not be one to sing his praises."

"That is true, Papa," Elizabeth replied, patting his hands. She was not entirely sure if she believed him, but somewhat relieved nonetheless.

When Mr. Darcy reappeared in the hall a moment later, Mr. Bennet released his hold on his daughter and spoke directly to the gentleman before him. He had, thus far, been proven right in his estimation of the man, but it did not follow that he was immune to the gossip which had followed Mr. Darcy's return to Hertfordshire—gossip that was likely to thrive now, given the events of the day and the inhabitants of the room behind them.

"I thank you for your quick defence of my daughter today, Mr. Darcy," he said firmly, "though I think it is high near time we shared a brandy in my book room. Would you not agree?"

"Yes, Mr. Bennet," Darcy replied in an even voice. "Of course."

"Well, then," Mr. Bennet said, clasping his hands together with a wry smile. "That is just about all the intrigue I can manage for one day. I will return to the parlour for the next act in our little farce now, if you will excuse me." Looking over his shoulder, he sent his daughter a wink. "Lizzy, I expect I will see you in a few minutes, when you find your nerves have settled. I would not have Jane miss your company today for the likes of Mr. Collins."

"Yes, Papa," she nodded, her eyes fixed on the looming shadow of Mr. Darcy.

When her father disappeared into the parlour, the shadow billowed towards her.

"Miss Bennet," he offered uneasily, while Elizabeth regretted his—entirely sensible—return to the level of formality which must exist between them. "Please allow me to apologise for my earlier behaviour. I should not have acted so…forcefully in the presence of a lady."

The fire in his eyes was gone now, replaced by a downcast expression she felt somewhat responsible for. Why should any man go to so much trouble for her? She had pushed the gentleman before her beyond the bounds of what anyone would consider to be reasonable behaviour more times than she ought—more than anyone had a right to—and yet here he was, apologising to her again.

It was unbearable.

"It is quite all right, Mr. Darcy," she offered sincerely, "I assure you, you have nothing to apologise for. Though perhaps I should apologise to you for my cousin's total lack of anything resembling good manners. I do not know what he meant by approaching you so, but I am sure such a display was… unwarranted."

Darcy's fraught nerves would not be soothed so easily, not even when Elizabeth sounded so… soothing.

"I understand if you were offended by my—"

"I am not offended, sir," Elizabeth interrupted, placing a light hand on his arm. She presented him with the warmest smile she could manage under the circumstances before she continued. "Well, not by _you_ , at least."

Though she soothed and smiled and he was somewhat distracted by the feeling of her hand on his arm, Darcy saw the gathering tension behind her eyes. Unaware that she was thinking of him—worrying that she had made him uncomfortable by placing him in an untenable position yet again—he misinterpreted her expression, as he so often did.

"I… He should not have spoken to you so, Miss Bennet," he said rather haltingly, "I hope you will allow me to… If you wish… that is, if you desire my absence…"

Elizabeth laughed, the sudden burst of sound in the comparatively quiet hall surprising both of them.

"Mr. Darcy," she coaxed, somewhat buoyed by the return of some of her natural liveliness. It was all so ridiculous! Never in a million years would she have thought Mr. Darcy would stand before her, making his apologies for _her cousin's_ poor behaviour. The thought that such a bizarre scenario had actually come to pass—and on her sister's wedding day, of all days—left her her choking back a steady stream of laughter which bubbled up her throat no matter how hard she tried to stifle it.

"I herby absolve you of all guilt in this matter, sir," she said lightly, her shoulders shaking with the evidence of her mirth. "My only wish is that we never speak of it again."

He did not look convinced, and so she continued in a brighter tone, "Truly, I am well. I am not offended, and my only wish is that my horrid cousin might now be far enough from the house that I might take some air in the garden."

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced once more by the timely arrival of yet another Bennet.

"An excellent idea," Jane's voice chimed from somewhere behind them. "I was just saying something similar myself, was I not?"

"Yes, dearest," they both heard Bingley readily agree, though their eyes remained on one another. "You were."

When Charles Bingley's newest sister and oldest friend finally turned their attention to him a moment later, he met their peculiar looks with a wide smile. "How odd to find you both thinking the same thing!"

As the quartet outfitted themselves for the outdoors, Jane and Elizabeth quietly exchanged apologies for the poor conduct of their cousin and the argument which had ensued between himself and Elizabeth. After each had been assured of the other's well-being and allayed her sister's concerns, Elizabeth took further advantage of the privacy afforded by the hall dressing closet to ask after Charlotte Collins. Thankfully, Jane soon informed her that Charlotte had seemed well enough when she had departed Longbourn in the care of her mother some few moments earlier. When Elizabeth pressed her sister for more details, Jane ultimately conceded that yes, Charlotte had looked somewhat vexed by her husband's preposterous behaviour, and yes, perhaps she had appeared to be somewhat exhausted by the strange turn of events in the parlour. Although Elizabeth worried for her friend, she knew that her friendship with Charlotte, not to mention her mother's close association with Lady Lucas, would never lead to _her_ being barred from Longbourn—whatever became of the Bennets' relationship with Mr. Collins.

When the party reassembled and stepped out the side door to the gardens soon after, Jane announced—despite her sister's many protestations—that she was in no mood for a walk.

"I should much rather remain here and enjoy the quiet, Lizzy," she explained, indicating her preference by taking up a position on a small stone bench. "It is too loud and too crowded in the house at present, and Charles and I are like to go mad if we are introduced to any more of Mama's dearest friends."

When Charles Bingley eagerly agreed with his new wife's pronouncement, for there was little he would _not_ agree with today, Mr. Darcy correctly interpreted the lay of the land and offered Elizabeth his arm.

"If you would like to walk the back garden," Jane smiled almost wickedly, "I think you will find it very much to your liking, Mr. Darcy."

Charles Bingley's eyes went wide with something like shock and the two hummed quietly together as Elizabeth steered Mr. Darcy towards the gardens to the side of the house. As they made their way past the great stone wall which separated them from the others, Elizabeth put her courage to the test.

"You should know that Charlotte tried to warn me about Mr. Collins, Mr. Darcy. I hope whatever… actions you or your aunt might take against my cousin for his behaviour today… I hope that they will not cause her to come to any harm. She is a good friend and I would not have her wounded by her relation to me any more than her relation to Mr. Collins."

Darcy thought for a long moment before making his reply. Somewhat distracted by his consideration of their steps, which now fell in tandem, he only began speaking when he felt her fingers tighten around his arm.

"As I am sure you heard from your cousin, Miss Bennet, I am in no position to tell my aunt much of anything. In fact, she is likely to be very pleased by his behaviour today, abhorrent and objectionable as it was to the rest of us. We are not…on good terms, my aunt and I."

Darcy did not mention that his aunt was only one of the members of his small family who he was no longer _on good terms_ with—though she had, undoubtedly, been the most furious with his decision to honour Hadley's demands. He had not opened a single one of her frequently delivered letters after the first—wherein she had explained that if he were to do as his uncle had suggested he would—if he were to hand over Pemberley to some deceitful, covetous serpent, and a sizeable fortune besides, he would be cut from the family before the ink had dried on the parchment. As his solicitors had forwarded him no fewer than twenty unaccountably thick letters since his departure from town, he found it entirely in keeping with her character that Lady Catherine did not seem capable of following her own directives.

"Then what he said…" Elizabeth breathed beside him, freeing him from the spiral of his own restless thoughts. "Forgive me, Mr. Darcy. I said we would not speak of it, and yet here I am speaking of it just as soon as we have left the house."

Loathe though he was to speak of it himself—any of it—Darcy knew that she, like her father, deserved an explanation.

"I have been…" he began, searching for the right words. When the right words proved impossible to find, he elected to speak from the gut. "I admit that there is some talk about me, Miss Bennet—around Town, and likely here in Meryton as well," he added, thinking of Caroline Bingley and the careful scrutiny he had come to expect from her since his return to the country. "The things that are being said about me are not flattering, to say the least, but I hope that you might… They are more fiction than fact, Miss Bennet. Or, at least they seem to be, from what little I have heard from my cousin, the Colonel, and now yours. What your cousin said about me… I would not have you believe… to think that I…"

When the words failed him, Elizabeth relied her own.

"I have already heard the rumours, Mr. Darcy," she said, flushing full red. "At least, I have heard some of… of what I believe you are describing."

"Oh," he mouthed, barely articulating the word. He kept his eyes focused on the path before him. It was all he could do to keep his feet moving forward. Elizabeth had heard the kind of talk about him that her cousin had alluded to so crassly? And yet she had kept up the acquaintance? To agree that they might be friends?

Could it mean that, as he had begun to suspect that morning in the church, when he felt her pulse racing in time with his own… Could it be that Elizabeth Bennet might think well of him—well enough that she might even disregard the opinions of her neighbours? Was he foolish enough to believe that she…might not be as immune to him as she had professed?

It was not much, but even a less desperate man might confuse a puddle with a well.

The blood was pounding in his ears now, muffling everything but the sound of the soft breaths coming from the woman walking beside him. Suddenly, he felt as though he had to know everything. A deep hunger gnawed at him and he knew that it could only be satiated by the truth—his truth as well as hers.

Unfortunately, the burgeoning swell of his anticipation was all but extinguished by the words that followed.

"Some of what has been said…" she began, her voice unsteady. "Well, you should not worry overmuch, Mr. Darcy. It is true that the people of the village are known for their talk, but their short attentions are equally as notorious, at least. There… there has been some talk about me as well of late, though I believe much of it has already settled. Or," she added with a sigh, not entirely believing her own words, "Or that it had, before today. But I have no doubt that it will soon be forgotten again—as will any talk about you, I am sure." She smiled. "It may be a small country town, Mr. Darcy, but have no doubt—there will be plenty of scandals to rival our own soon enough."

Darcy stopped abruptly, taking Elizabeth firmly by the shoulders and turning her to face him. Their eyes met and locked into place. Elizabeth shivered at the intensity of his gaze, but she dared not look away. Instead, she watched as the storm gathered in his eyes, frantically searching for the words to dispel it.

"Talk about _you_?" he said gruffly, not wanting to believe his ears. Had Elizabeth's connection to him been the impetus for some kind of vicious gossip, which was even now worming its way through the village? Had they been seen walking together and… Had his very presence somehow harmed her reputation? How could he not have seen this coming? He had known that the rumours about him would eventually make their way to Meryton, and yet he had continued to place Elizabeth at risk for the benefit of his own selfish indulgence. He was heartily ashamed of himself. He had returned to Hertfordshire with the aim of becoming a better man, but he was no better than he had been last autumn or last April. He had failed her, again.

"The talk you describe," he rasped, his tongue faltering a bit over the words, "Is it… Could I have—"

"It does not concern _you_ , Mr. Darcy," she interjected, not wanting to hear him to say the words. However, once she had spoken, she realised that the words _she_ would have to say next were likely to be much, much worse for both of them.

 _Not him?_ Darcy seethed. If the talk in town did not concern _him_ , then whom _did_ it concern?

 _"_ John Barry?" Darcy challenged brusquely, remembering how her sister, Kitty, had once mentioned Elizabeth's dancing with him—not to mention the display the gentleman had put on over tea. _The gentleman, indeed!_ Darcy scoffed silently.

His blood grew cold, a spire of ice shooting up his spine which chilled him to the core. It appeared that he was not done with throwing men out of Mr. Bennet's house today.

Elizabeth had averted her eyes now.

She could not look at him when she said his name. She could not see the hurt, the confusion, the disgust she knew she would find there when the words left her lips. But she knew she must say it all the same, and so she did.

"Mr. Wickham."

Darcy's grip on her arms tightened. Though he was unaware of it, she was not.

He was aware of her father's desire to locate Wickham after he had left number of creditors empty handed in Meryton and soon after deserted the militia. Elizabeth had come to him seeking information after their first meeting on the lane, believing that he—as Wickham's former friend and schoolmate, not to mention a man who had incurred debts of his own on that man's behalf—might have some idea of where Wickham would seek refuge. Unfortunately, he had been able to offer little assistance in the matter of locating the miscreant as of yet, though Colonel Fitzwilliam had assured him that they would find him eventually. And then there had been the story she had told him… the story of a village girl whose family needed to find Wickham, for more… pressing reasons. A young girl who had been deceived by him, just as Georgiana had—perhaps _more_ than Georgiana had.

Darcy's eyes went black.

"Elizabeth," he demanded, her name catching in his throat. "Please tell me how that… how _that man's_ _name_ should come to share the same breath as your own."

His response was not what she had expected.

Admittedly, neither was hers.

"Are you implying that there must be some truth to what has been said of me?" she snapped, something dangerous brewing in her eyes.

"Of course not!" Darcy bellowed, irritated by her habit to assume the worst of him.

Did she not understand that he was _worried_ for her? Could she not see that he was angry with _Wickham_ for dragging her into some sort of disreputable situation that could very well mean her ruin in the eyes of society— _which he still knew nothing about!_ A lump formed in his throat. Surely Elizabeth was not the ' _friend_ ' she had spoken of to him. Surely Wickham had not… had not…

Darcy closed his eyes, turned his face to the skies, and took a deep breath. He still held fast to Elizabeth's arms, lest she decide to return to the house and escape his presence forever while he took a much needed moment to collect his thoughts.

Of course she did not know.

Of course she assumed the worst of him.

He had given her few reasons to think anything else.

"Elizabeth," he said on a heavy exhale, returning his eyes to her only to find her watching him. She said nothing, but her steely gaze clearly demanded that he explain himself. He spoke slowly, willing her to understand. "I did not mean to imply anything of the kind."

Feeling her relax slightly under his touch, he slipped his hands down her arms until he had released them. "The thought that Wickham… if he had… imposed himself on you, in some way..."

He saw the relief in her eyes before she voiced it. Something in his chest—a tightness he had not noticed before—loosened and broke free.

"It is nothing like that," she said firmly, shaking her head. "Or, rather—it is, but they have confused me with…someone else."

Mr. Darcy's brow furrowed and Elizabeth attempted to explain herself. It had been so long since she had first heard the rumours that she had almost ceased thinking about them entirely. Though she had continued to avoid her regular walks into town, she found the time spent in Mr. Darcy's company much more agreeable.

"The friend I spoke to you of…was not a friend at all. She was my youngest sister, Lydia," she said in a soft voice. His heart ached for her.

 _Her sister_.

Yes, he knew the feeling all too well.

"Lydia traveled with the regiment when they removed to Brighton for the summer in the company of Colonel Forster and his wife. The Colonel is a respectable man, but his wife is near Kitty's age and at least as silly as my sisters."

Elizabeth scowled as the unhappy memories poured into her, her heavy gaze falling to the patch of earth between their feet.

"Lydia was soon persuaded to think herself in love with Mr. Wickham, and that he was similarly in love with her."

Mr. Darcy muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but Elizabeth did not ask him to repeat himself. Keeping her eyes fixed on the ground beneath her feet, she continued.

"They had meant to elope. I do not believe… I know that Mr. Wickham would not have kept his word to her. He is not an honourable man and he would not have married her. Lydia seems to disagree, but I suppose that is the way of young, silly sisters."

Mr. Darcy let out a sharp breath and Elizabeth reflected on her words.

"My sisters, of course," she rushed, tipping her head upwards to meet his eyes. She hoped she hadn't offended him by inadvertently implying any slight against his own sister. Though she had never met Miss Darcy, she knew that her brother cherished her above all others. He was a good man, and Georgiana Darcy deserved better than the slander of strangers. She would not have him think she thought ill of her.

"And what became of their plans?" Mr. Darcy asked seriously, his gaze boring into hers.

"Nothing," she said quickly. Noting his evident surprise, she clarified with what she had learned of the foiled elopement from Lydia in as frantic a pace as the words would allow.

"They were meant to meet at a nearby inn one evening. Lydia was to take a room and wait for him. She did as he had directed."

Another grunt escaped Mr. Darcy, but Elizabeth did not turn her face from him.

"She approached the innkeeper and paid the extra fee Wickham had recommended to ensure his cooperation. Then, she went to the room to wait. She waited all night, but Mr. Wickham never appeared. When the note she had left for Mrs. Forster was found the next morning, the Colonel sent out his men to search for her."

"And she was uncovered, unharmed?" Darcy asked, clearly in a state of disbelief.

"Yes, as near as we can tell," Elizabeth nodded, indicating that she had also had some reservations about Lydia's version of events. Still, it had been several weeks and there were no signs of a babe yet.

With any luck, there never would be.

"She seems well enough now, and it was easier to keep quiet than it might have been in Meryton. The innkeeper, not wanting to risk the wrath of a Colonel in his majesty's army for a few spare coins, turned her over immediately. Jane and Mr. Bingley agreed to marry earlier than they had planned in order to retrieve her from Brighton with as little attention drawn to her departure as could be arranged. However, when the story made its way back to Meryton, somehow my name was confused with Lydia's. Half the town likely still believes I am secretly married to him."

Darcy's head was spinning. Elizabeth's rumoured marriage to Wickham and the true identity of her 'friend' aside—disturbing enough when considered on their own—were not what puzzled him most about her story. Why on earth would Wickham seduce a girl into agreeing to an elopement, only to not take full advantage of the situation? It did not match with anything he knew of Wickham's character or his propensity for debauched behaviour. It must have been something very particular to draw Wickham away from such a willing victim. The thought rankled him.

"And was this night, by chance, the first of August? The very day he deserted his post in Brighton?" he asked, a sparse few of the pieces falling together in his mind.

"Yes," Elizabeth nodded, more than a little confused by his question. "I believe it was a Saturday. The same day that I returned from..." she paused, feeling that neither of them were ready to revisit the topic of her stay at Pemberley—at least not until they had settled the topic of George Wickham. "The day that I returned to Longbourn."

"I see," Mr. Darcy said, his countenance giving nothing of his inner thoughts away. "And you are well?" he asked suddenly, "You and…all your family? Miss Lydia, she is well?"

Miss Lydia had certainly seemed well enough today. In fact, her characteristic... _exuberance_ had been on full display for most of the morning. While Darcy was amazed that her parents had evidently taken so little trouble to check her, especially now that he was aware of her entanglement with Wickham, he supposed he should not have expected anything more from them. Still, he knew from experience that young girls often went to extreme lengths to hide their true feelings, and he was somewhat surprised to find that he truly was concerned for the girl. Despite her frequently appalling conduct and unquestionably poor manners in mixed-company, Lydia Bennet was Elizabeth's sister—not to mention full young. She was certainly no match for the likes of George Wickham.

"Yes, sir," Elizabeth confirmed with a weak smile. "We are all well. Lydia perhaps most of all. Unfortunately she has no sense of the distress she caused her family. She still believes Mr. Wickham will return for her." Elizabeth's voice dropped to a whisper, her thoughts turning inwards. "Perhaps it is best that way, for now."

Darcy only nodded.

In truth, he found it difficult to discern his own thoughts on the mysterious case of Wickham's _second_ near-elopement—the first having being practiced upon his own sister. While he could only applaud his failure on both accounts, the timing of Lydia Bennet's abandonment bothered him.

Darcy had thought little of Wickham's desertion when Elizabeth had carried the news to him. After all, he was well aware that Wickham stood about as good of a chance of making an honourable life for himself in the army as he had amongst the ranks of the clergy—and the list of women seeking restitution for his 'love-making' was likely twice as long as that of his creditors. A slight frown was the only sign of the passing irritation he felt when he realized that Elizabeth had deliberately misled him, but he schooled his features as quickly as he pushed the thought aside. It was true that Elizabeth had led him to believe that the 'friend' who had been wounded by Wickham remained in Meryton, but he could not fault her for attempting to protect her sister's name at the time. It was hardly surprising that she had not trusted him then, even though she had reached out to him for assistance. However, the frown made a sudden reappearance when Darcy mentally ran through Elizabeth's new, accurate accounting of the events pertaining to Wickham's departure, desertion, and disappearance.

Everything Darcy knew of Wickham, when considered alongside both the timing of his desertion and Lydia Bennet's aborted elopement—none of it made sense. What could have compelled Wickham to flee Brighton on the same night be had planned to abscond with Lydia Bennet, yet leave the girl behind? By all accounts, she had followed his directions to the letter. _Her_ part in the planned elopement had been executed perfectly down to the smallest detail. And yet, if Lydia Bennet was to be believed, Wickham had not... taken full advantage of the situation. That small piece of information alone was enough to raise Darcy's suspicions. Had Wickham feared being caught with the girl? Had he simply decided she was not worth the risk? But no, Wickham rarely, if ever, expended any effort orchestrating schemes he did not mean to see through to the end—regardless of the feasibility of the task or the hazards involved. It was one of the reasons he had always been so easy for Darcy's men to track. And so, the question remained—what could have driven Wickham from Brighton when the...fruit of his labour—Lydia Bennet—was so ripe for the picking? Darcy had the distinct impression that he was missing something important.

He had not given it enough thought. He had not given _any of it_ enough thought, he knew. But now… something was changing. Something deep within him was telling him—compelling him—to try. For the first time, he felt as though he might _want_ to try. Even if nothing came of it, that feeling alone was reason enough to write to the Colonel as soon as could be. Richard would help him. And perhaps Richard would see what he could not.

Darcy's thoughts churned rapidly from one scene to the next, the characters portrayed therein sometimes overlapping as their circumstances and stories melded together in his mind. One thought, however—or rather, _one person_ —suddenly shot out from the rest.

"And John Barry?" he muttered, just loud enough to reach Elizabeth's ears. He had not realised that he had spoken the name aloud—for the second time that day—until it was too late to do anything about it. Somewhat embarrassed, he attempted to cover his most recent misstep with a jest. "Is John Barry of a mind that you are secretly wed to George Wickham as well?"

To his great relief, Elizabeth laughed.

He met her smiling eyes almost sheepishly. He could not account for the direction of his thoughts and he was too tired to attempt such an exercise even if he had wished to.

"You seem to have developed an uncommon interested in that gentleman today, sir."

Elizabeth watched with satisfaction as the line of Mr. Darcy's jaw snapped suddenly to attention.

"Unfortunately," she continued, only the ghost of a smile playing on her lips, "I cannot say with any great degree of accuracy what opinions Mr. Barry may or may not hold regarding a man he has likely never met, considering that I know little more of him than that he once once enjoyed catching frogs in the pond around this bend, and that he now prefers sugar with his tea." Elizabeth paused and Darcy watched as the delicate arch of a brow inched ever higher, her fine eyes sparkling with a familiar amusement. As he forced himself to consider her words, for he had clearly been staring at her for too long, Darcy realized—rather belatedly—that she was teasing him. And she was not done.

"If you are so interested in Mr. Barry's suppositions, I might encourage you to put your question to the gentleman himself, Mr. Darcy."

Freed from the weight of their discomfiting conversation but still caught in the wake of its effects, Darcy was in a rare state of bemusement. He knew that they still had much to discuss, but he needed to fortify himself before they approached the inevitable fork in the road before them. It had been a long day in more ways than one, and he had never wished more that he could leave it all behind and start again. Still, if her teasing cheered him, he decided to chance that the same might be true for Elizabeth. Though he had often wished to tease her, he had avoided giving into such a gratifying pleasure more often than not. But it _had_ been a long day, and they _both_ needed a release.

"And run the risk that he might discover a rather fortuitous assumption of his had been made in error?" he smiled, quirking a brow in what Elizabeth found to be an entirely too mischievous manner for the taciturn Mr. Darcy.

In fact, she was intrigued.

 _Very well then_ , Elizabeth thought to herself, biting back the questions which crowded the tip of her tongue. For once, she had decided to follow Mr. Darcy's lead.

"Fortuitous for whom, Mr. Darcy?" she asked sweetly, mirroring his expression.

He took up her arm again and raised his free hand to indicate that they should continue down the garden path. She did not protest.

"It is a lovely day for a walk, Miss Bennet. Would you not agree? But then I always enjoy a walk when graced with such pleasant company."

When Elizabeth laughed again, Darcy felt as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders.

"I find it interesting that we have yet to discuss the truth behind the charges lain at _your_ door this afternoon, Mr. Darcy, and yet you speak such sweet nonsense with such ease! Are you not afraid of turning my opinion of you when you already know what all of Meryton is saying?"

"And likely half of Kent," he corrected, smiling.

"Yes, and half of Kent!" Elizabeth agreed. She returned his soft smile, hers growing wider as she took note of the slight crinkles which touched the corners of his eyes.

"And yet you have revealed that you have already heard the rumours yourself, Miss Bennet. One might wonder why you would spend so much time in my company if you truly believed them."

Elizabeth very much appreciated the appearance of a dimple she had not noticed before when he smiled.

"Take care, Mr. Darcy," she said seriously. "We both know that my mother lurks somewhere on the property. If she were to hear you now, she would certainly accuse you of flirting with me for some mysterious reason of her own, even if only to prove her perceptions of you correct for the whole of the neighbourhood."

"Me, _flirt_?" Mr. Darcy exclaimed, sounding aghast. "Miss Bennet, contrary to the rumours you—and the whole of the neighbourhood, and likely half of Kent—have apparently heard, I assure you no one has ever accused me of such a grievous transgression before my arrival in Hertfordshire some weeks ago. I cannot say where or how they began, but I assure you that there is no truth to them—on that account at least. Furthermore," he added with a gentle roll of his eyes, "I very much doubt your mother would take an interest in my doing anything."

Elizabeth attempted to bite back the foolish grin which threatened to spread across her face as she regarded Mr. Darcy's now serious mien beside her. She was largely unsuccessful, but she continued her efforts nonetheless.

"Are you quite certain, sir?"

"About the flirting?" he replied gravely. "Oh yes, Miss Bennet. I should think I might remember such a thing. It would certainly have left an impression. Of course, a gentleman's behaviour is always suspect. If I do not speak, I am branded cross as crabs. If I do, surely I must have some designs on the lady."

"Cross as crabs, Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth said brightly, more than a little surprised by his turn of phrase.

"Have you never heard the expression?" Darcy asked, his brow lightly furrowed in confusion. "It means rude, I believe. Above one's company."

Not even her best efforts could contain Elizabeth's reaction to Mr. Darcy's decidedly solemn reply. Her laughter rang out above the trees and Darcy found himself joining her, a deep chuckle thundering up from his chest. Elizabeth found it exhilarating. When the rumbling beside her ceased, she found that she very much wanted to hear it again.

"Yes, I have heard the expression," she said on a mirthful sign, wiping at the tears in her eyes with the back of her free hand. "But I must say, I never expected to hear it from _you_."

Darcy watched her descend into another round of soft laughter as he adopted a mild expression of concern.

"Ah," he sighed mournfully. "So you are saying it is true then?"

"Not entirely," she replied with a nod of her head, taking a moment to steady herself. It had been a particularly trying day and she was grateful for his efforts to cheer her. And so, she attempted to return the favour—though her jest may have carried on a little further than she might have wished, had she still carried all her wits about her. As it was, she was still feeling rather addled by the abrupt turn of their conversation—though she was enjoying it immensely.

"Though I do agree with your assessment that many a lady's mind jumps from conversation to marriage, sir—especially when the gentleman in question is a bit of a flirt. Which," she added, caught up in the swell of her high-spirits, "if you are to be believed, you are not. But are you quite sure you are not flirting with me now, Mr. Darcy? I must tell you that the whole of the neighbourhood and at least half of Kent might find cause to disagree with you."

Darcy only smiled again, shaking his head. Elizabeth frowned slightly. She had not been expecting a roaring laugh, certainly, but she might have appreciated a return of the crinkles.

"I can honestly say that I have never consciously flirted with any of them. I do not know where such an obvious falsehood could have originated. I have problems enough, Miss Bennet. Constancy is not one of them."

Elizabeth tapped her finger playfully against her lips as if deep in thought.

"And yet you have evaded my question."

Darcy released a booming laugh that brought Elizabeth near tears once again. She had done it! When he had sufficiently collected himself a moment later, he quirked his brows at her in a fashion she found both wildly diverting and surprisingly appealing.

"I suppose I have," he said honestly, watching as a particularly charming blush crept up Elizabeth's cheeks.

A long moment later, when they had both realised that their mutual attempt at lighthearted banter had carried them into some rather dangerous territory, they returned what remained of their concentration back to the path before them.

Elizabeth cleared her throat as they rounded the bend which would lead them past Longbourn's kitchen doors.

"As there was some truth to the rumour between myself and Mr. Wickham, would I be correct in assuming that there is some truth to the rumours which have followed you from Town as well?"

Darcy nodded, his serious mien no longer a jest.

"There is."

Elizabeth stopped walking and felt Darcy grow still beside her.

"I hope," she began, turning to meet his gaze, "I hope that you truly do think us friends, Mr. Darcy."

"I do," he agreed, wanting but unwilling to say more.

"And as friends," Elizabeth said, her eyes searching his, "I hope you would feel free to speak to me about…about anything that troubles you."

Darcy opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"I do not mean to imply that you _must_ tell me all of your nearest concerns, Mr. Darcy. I would never expect such a thing. I only mean to say that..."

Darcy's eyes followed the movement of her lips and Elizabeth felt her thoughts drifting away from her. What _did_ she mean to say?

"If it should ease your burden," she finally stammered out, attempting an amiable smile—a _friendly_ smile. "I have often proved a very capable listener to more than once sister and a fair number of friends. As far as I know, none of them are the worse for it."

She was rambling now, she knew. Smoothing her skirts with her hands, Elizabeth did her best to maintain eye-contact with the gentleman standing across from her. It made her uncomfortable to do so, but she would make sure he understood that her offer was sincere.

"I do not know what truth lies behind the rumours, and I would not have you tell me simply because I wished you to," she said honestly. "But I would have you know that…no matter what might be said of you, I meant what I said on our walk from the church this morning. You are a good man, Mr. Darcy—a good friend, and no one will ever speak ill of you within my hearing."

"You would defend my reputation against hordes of vociferous villagers?" Darcy asked in a soft voice, only partly in jest. It was a strange thought, Elizabeth Bennet championing him amongst the very friends and relations he had once slighted so unfairly.

"Yes," Elizabeth said seriously, meeting his questioning gaze with a firm stare. "I would."

Darcy considered all that was before him—Elizabeth Bennet, offering her protection. Elizabeth Bennet, saying that she believed in him, without any evidence in support of him on offer. In truth, he had shared very little information with her of any kind and assumed—correctly, as it turned out—that she had heard any number of the slanderous, disgusting, and spiteful lies and half-truths that were being bandied about the town. Elizabeth Bennet, who was most assuredly _not_ looking at him with either reproach or pity in her eyes—but something else entirely.

 _Oh,_ Darcy thought to himself, his brow drawing into a tight line as a familiar weight settled in his gut. _The irony of it all._

He reached out to her almost without thinking, cradling one of her small hands in both of his own. He opened his mouth to speak, once again willing her to understand.

"Miss Elizabeth," he began, "I should like to have a friend like that. I should like that…very much."

Elizabeth only blinked her reply, unsure of what she should say, or if she should say anything at all. It seemed a terrible time for conversation but she could think of nothing else to do.

Her mind went blank just as Darcy's flooded with images. A number of the possibilities he considered involved no words at all.

They stood, facing one another, in silence. The passing seconds might as well have been hours, though each continued to wait for the other to speak—or move. In the end, the moment would not be broken by either of them.

"Ah, there you are!" Charles called out from the edge of the garden path. "We were just about to return to the breakfast for the bride's cake. Will you be accompanying us?"

"No," Darcy replied hastily, releasing Elizabeth's hand. "No, Charles—I thank you. I believe I have caused quite enough commotion for one day." His eyes slid back to the woman at his side. "I should be returning to check on some things back at the cottage," _such as penning a long letter to Richard_ , he added silently.

"Wait!" Elizabeth cried, startling the rest of their small party. She cleared her throat, somewhat embarrassed by her own outburst. After all, it was not as though she would never see Mr. Darcy again. He was just walking down the lane.

"If you would remain here for a moment, I shall return directly," she said in a quieter voice, indicating that she meant for Darcy to wait for her with a brief nod which he quickly returned.

With that, she disappeared into Longbourn. As Charles, Jane, and Darcy continued to exchange pleasantries, Darcy's eyes continued to drift towards the kitchen door. He was rewarded for his efforts when he spied the hem of a skirt peeking out of the entryway. When the rest of her appeared a short moment later, Darcy smiled at the sight of her—she carried a basket in her hands.

"It is a thank you," she said, holding the basket out to him at arm's length. "For today…Mr. Collins."

Darcy nodded and retrieved the familiar woven handle from her hands, thinking of the first day he had seen it. She had called it an apology then. Today it was a thank you. Elizabeth Bennet appeared to have a basket for everything.

Peering inside, a lone chuckle escaped him.

"Jam?" he asked, grinning in a manner he fleetingly considered must appear idiotic to the small group assembled before him, but he did attempt to hide his obvious pleasure. Elizabeth Bennet had made him blackberry jam.

Elizabeth cleared her throat—more than a little thrown off by his enthusiastic response to what was essentially just smashed fruit in a jar. They had joked about it before, of course—but it was unlikely that _he_ remembered that.

"Jane helped," she explained, suddenly uneasy. Why in the world had she given _Mr. Darcy_ jam? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when she had practically shouted at him to remain in the garden—but she had almost instantly regretted it. In fact, she had stood in the kitchen doorway for a long moment before returning to the rest of the party, hoping that he might have forgotten her absence and gone home. But he had not. And he was looking at her. Had she been speaking?

"And Hill, of course," she added. "For the wedding breakfast."

Jane watched the pair of them, her eyes on Mr. Darcy as he thanked her sister for the jam which she had most certainly not helped make. Jane had never made jam in her life. Try as she might, she was terrible in the kitchen. She said none of this, of course, remaining silent until the gentleman turned to her to offer his regards.

"Mrs. Bingley," he said, bowing over her hand. "It has been a pleasure. I wish you and Bingley every happiness today and every day that follows."

Jane reached out with her free hand to pat her husband's dearest friend on the arm. With Elizabeth and Charles now engaged in conversation but a few steps away, she leaned forward before making her reply.

"I thank you, Mr. Darcy. And all will be well, as I am sure you will soon see."

Darcy was confused by the remark, and it showed, but he nodded his thanks nonetheless, said his goodbyes to Bingley and Elizabeth, and made his way down the lane towards the cottage at Netherfield.

When he was out of sight, the rest of the group made their way back to the side door of the house. After Charles had entered, Jane stopped suddenly, spinning on her heel and tugging her sister back out the door by her elbow.

"Jane?" Elizabeth asked, clearly bewildered. But Jane had no time for lengthy explanations. Charles was only a few steps away and they would be leaving Longbourn soon. They would only have a moment, but a moment was all she needed.

"That man," Jane said, staring directly into her sister's eyes, "is in love with you."

"Jane," Elizabeth began to protest—but Jane was not finished. And, by all accounts, today was her day. She intended to make the most of it.

"No, Lizzy," she said firmly, giving her sister's elbow a shake. "Anyone can see _that_ , but _I_ am your sister. That is not what I am telling you."

"Then what—"

"I am telling you that _you_ are in love with _him_."

"Jane," Elizabeth gasped, but Jane Bingley would hear none of her protestations. Elizabeth had needed someone to tell her, and tell her she had. Pulling her sister back into the house, she made her way to her husband's side.

Today was Jane Bingley's day.

As Darcy picked his way down the path to the cottage, he quite disagreed. Although the wedding of Jane Bennet and Charles Bingley had been a lovely affair, his head and heart were full of Elizabeth Bennet.

While he still found it difficult to credit the idea of second chances as a general rule, he could at least be glad that he and Elizabeth seemed to have made a new beginning. It was not much, but it was something.

It was a start.

These were his thoughts as he made his way around the bend in the road—the very same curve of the path where he had first seen Elizabeth upon her inconveniently timed return to Hertfordshire, and the place where she had first handed him the basket he now carried in his arms. Despite all of his best efforts to either forget her or regret her, he had been in love with her even then—as he still was today.

What he could possibly do about it, he had no idea.

But as Darcy rounded the bend, his meandering thoughts of Elizabeth changed course entirely. There—tied to the post near the front gate of his cottage—was a blessedly familiar sight. A horse. A very familiar horse. Darcy picked up his pace and shook his head, still not quite believing his eyes.

When he had all but reached the cottage, he shouted to his visitor in the loudest voice he could muster. "Talk of the Devil!"

"And he's presently at your elbow!" came the booming reply he had expected, calling from somewhere inside the cottage. A moment later and the grinning face of Richard Fitzwilliam peered out at Darcy from the open door.

"Get on with it then!" the Colonel cried, "We have much to discuss and you've become far too accomplished at hiding your port!"

Smiling back at his cousin as he clapped him on the back, Darcy allowed himself to feel the first glimmer of hope.

It was a start.

* * *

So, how did I do? I know! I know! I am so sorry about that last bit with Charles and Jane, but it really couldn't be helped. Aside from that horrible interruption, who's excited to get down to brass tacks? Any parting words for Mr. Collins or advice for ODC? Will Elizabeth realise her feelings for Darcy for what they are (or has she already)? Poor Jane can only do so much, after all! And what in the world would compel Colonel Fitzwilliam to ride all the way to Hertfordshire? Does it mean hope for Darcy?I make no promises on any account, but I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


End file.
